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shortandsosweet · 1 month ago

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CAROLINE I NEED THERAPY MONEY AFTER THIS I'M CRYINGGGG YOU'RE SO TALENTEDDDDDDD

love letters luke leaves you around your apartment !

✴︎ in the pocket of his hoodie

you don’t mean to miss him this much. not on the first night. not when the front door has barely had the time to stay shut behind him.

but it’s cold, and quiet, and the apartment feels like it’s holding its breath without him in it.

you wander around aimlessly, toes tucked into socks he folded for you, and settle in front of the closet where his hoodies live. it’s habit now — reaching for the gray one, soft from too many washes, long enough to cover your hands. it’s the one he always lets you steal when you need comfort without asking.

you shrug it on, breathe in the leftover warmth of him, and immediately feel your fingers brush against something in the pocket.

folded paper.

your name written on the front, no envelope, just the soft curve of his handwriting like it didn’t want to shout.

you sit on the edge of the bed before you open it.

baby,

you’re probably wearing this because you’re cold — or because you miss me a little. i’m hoping it’s because you miss me.

i’m also hoping this makes you smile.

this is just a little note, nothing fancy. just something to remind you that i’m thinking of you, even when i’m far away, even when we’re in different time zones and you’re yelling at the tv because the team messed up again. (i know you do that. don’t deny it.)

this hoodie always looks better on you, by the way. always smells like you by the time i get it back. not that i’m complaining. i love it. i love you.

i already miss your hands on my cheeks when you say goodbye. i already miss how you always remind me to pack moisturizer even though you know i’m going to forget to use it by the second night, i miss your little sigh when you finally curl up on the couch and let yourself relax.

you always carry so much. i wish you wouldn’t.

i hope you slept well. i hope you’re taking it easy. i hope you know how much of my heart i left behind in this apartment with you.

i’ll be back soon. and when i am, we’re getting breakfast from that place you love and we’re watching the dumb movie you keep saying i won’t like. (i probably won’t. but i’ll still watch it. you know why.)

take care of yourself, baby.

yours, always,

luke.

you blink hard at the end of the note, mouth curved without even realizing it. you fold the paper again like it’s something sacred, something alive, and press it to your chest for just a second.

he’s not even that far yet. still probably somewhere in the air, scrolling through his playlist, half-asleep against the window.

but this?

this feels like he never left.

you pull your knees up onto the bed and sink into his hoodie fully, sleeves tucked around your hands. the paper stays close, warm where you keep it resting in your palm.

✴︎ in your favourite mug

the next morning comes too quiet.

sunlight filters through the blinds in strips, warm on the hardwood, but not quite enough to fill the space he left behind. you pad into the kitchen on bare feet, still in his hoodie, hair knotted from sleep, and the kettle hums low as you press the button down.

you’re not even fully awake yet — not really — just moving through the motions, heavy-limbed and quiet. sleep never feels as good without him. it’s like your body forgets how to rest.

you reach for your favorite mug without thinking, tucked behind a mismatched stack of his team ones and a chipped one from a diner you both swore you’d never return to. it’s instinct by now — that familiar blue ceramic one with the tiny crack near the handle that he once tried to glue and failed miserably.

your fingers wrap around it, and something shifts.

it’s too light. hollow. not right.

you tip it slightly and—

a folded note flutters out.

you blink once, then twice, then reach for it with both hands. same soft paper. same looped handwriting. and your name written in cursive.

hi baby,

figured you’d go for this mug. you always do. you say everything tastes better in it and i believe you, even though it makes no sense. but that’s kind of your magic — making the smallest things feel like something more.

you always make things feel like home.

i was thinking about how you’ll probably be standing in the kitchen when you find this. maybe wrapped up in one of my hoodies, hair still messy from sleep. maybe it’s afternoon. maybe it’s one of those slow mornings you like best, where you pad around in socks and put music on before you’re fully awake.

i hope it’s one of those. i hope you let the quiet be soft instead of lonely.

i love that you always start your day with tea. i love how you always hold your mug with both hands, even in the summer. i love the little way you blow on it before every sip. you do that without noticing, but i always do.

sometimes i think i notice too much when it comes to you.

but then again, how could i not?

how could i not look at you like you hung every star in the sky and left one above the stove just to keep me warm when you’re gone?

don’t roll your eyes. i can hear it from here.

take your time this morning, okay? don’t rush around. don’t worry about things that can wait. sit by the window and drink your tea and let the sunlight find your face. let yourself be soft.

i’ll be back before you know it. and when i am, you better be ready to tell me every little thing i missed. even the boring stuff. especially the boring stuff. i wanna know it all.

you make everything matter.

you always do.

yours,

luke

you stare at it for a moment longer, then press it flat on the counter and slide the mug in front of you. pour the water. drop in the bag. hold it with both hands just like he said.

outside, the day is already stretching open.

inside, you let yourself sit still.

you take your first sip and smile.

he was right. it does taste better.

✴︎ in your jewellery tray

you weren’t expecting anything. just moving through the motions — reaching for the gold band you always wear, the one that sits right by the edge of your little jewelry tray. but when you lift it, you catch a glimpse of soft paper, tucked neatly underneath. your breath catches.

you know exactly what it is.

his handwriting greets you before the words do. that familiar curve to his letters, like he tries to fit all his love into every line. you unfold it gently, fingers brushing the edge like it’s something precious.

you read it once, twice, slower the second time — like holding it tighter might bring him closer.

baby,

i know this is where your fingers land when you’re getting ready. and i hope this finds you when you’re still soft. before the noise starts. before the world pulls at you.

i wanted this to be waiting for you here — with your rings and your necklaces and all the little pieces of pretty things you keep close.

because you are the most beautiful thing you own. and maybe you forget that sometimes.

maybe you look in the mirror and think about everything you wish you could change. maybe you get lost in your head. maybe you hesitate before picking what to wear or how to carry yourself. i know how quiet you get when that happens.

so i’ll remind you now.

you’re more than enough. you’re gold even when you’re not wearing any. you shine in every room. you make everything feel like it matters.

and i don’t just love how you look when you’re dressed up or wearing something i gave you — i love who you are when no one’s looking. when you’re just you. my favorite version.

you don’t need any of this. but i know it makes you feel like yourself. and i love that about you, too.

yours,

luke.

you run your fingers along the crease where he folded it, like maybe his fingertips still live there.

then, without thinking, you tuck the note right back underneath the tray — right where you found it. like something to reach for when you need it again.

because you will.

and it’ll still mean the same thing every time.

✴︎ in your textbook

you’ve been hunched over the same paragraph for twenty minutes.

highlighter cap chewed, hair pulled back too tight, fingers smudged with pen ink from taking too many notes that don’t make any sense anymore. your back aches. your neck’s stiff. and every word on the page is starting to look like it was made up just to piss you off.

you push your chair back slightly, cracking your knuckles and blinking hard at the fluorescent light above.

one more chapter.

you reach for the next textbook in the stack, flipping it open roughly — and something slips out from between the pages. a soft sound. the quiet flutter of paper against paper.

your gaze drops to your lap.

a folded note. familiar handwriting.

your chest tightens.

your fingers unfold it slower this time, careful like it’s something fragile.

hi sweet girl,

i know you’ve probably got that face on right now. the one where your eyebrows get all tight and your mouth does that little pout you don’t know you’re doing. you only make that face when you’re focused. or overwhelmed. or both.

i know you work hard. i know you carry a lot — way more than anyone even realizes.

and i also know you won’t stop. not until it’s done. not until it’s perfect. not until you’ve pushed yourself past the point where you should’ve stopped to breathe.

so this is me, asking you to breathe.

just for a second.

you’re allowed to pause. you’re allowed to rest. nothing about you becomes less worthy or impressive or brilliant just because you put the pen down for a minute.

you don’t need to prove anything to anyone. not to me. not to yourself.

you’re already enough.

i love how smart you are. how curious. how you always want to understand things deeply, fully, completely. i love that you fight for what you want, even when it’s hard. even when it’s exhausting.

but you don’t have to fight all the time. not alone.

i’m proud of you.

whether you get every answer right or none at all. whether you feel like you’re on top of the world or buried underneath it. i’m proud of you just for trying.

and i’m always, always in your corner.

now, please, sit back. stretch. unclench your jaw. go fill your water bottle. walk around the room. take ten slow breaths.

i’ll be home soon. and when i am, i’ll make you close your laptop and lie on my chest while we watch that boring documentary you like. you’ll complain about being behind, and i’ll remind you that you deserve a break anyway.

because you do.

you deserve all the gentleness this world can offer.

and if it won’t give it to you — i will.

i love you. even with ink on your fingers and stress in your spine and your brain full of too much.

especially then.

always then.

yours,

luke

you exhale before you even realize you were holding your breath. the paper shakes just slightly in your hand.

you set it down beside your laptop and lean back in your chair.

just for a minute.

just like he asked.

just like he knew you would.

✴︎ tucked into your purse

the morning’s rushed. not in a bad way — just that usual kind of chaos where everything’s a little off-kilter without him. the bed’s colder. the hallway’s too quiet. you keep reaching for things you forget he’s taken with him — like the water bottle he always steals or the hoodie that somehow ended up in his suitcase.

your phone buzzes with a reminder: “class @ 10.” you groan and throw your bag over your shoulder, slipping on your sneakers while holding your toast between your teeth. and it’s only when you’re on the train, tucked into your usual window seat, that you dig through your purse for a lip balm — and find the note.

folded in half, pale blue paper. his handwriting. you feel it before you even read it.

the way your chest softens. the heat behind your eyes.

you look around. nobody’s watching. you unfold it slowly.

my love,

you always carry so much.

your phone. your pens. your keys. your snacks. your emergency lip gloss. your receipts you never throw out. your hope. your ridiculously soft heart.

and i just wanted to say — thank you for carrying me, too.

i know it’s not always easy loving me. i know i get in my own head, and i disappear into games, and sometimes i forget how to say things the way you need to hear them. but you keep me close anyway. always. without question.

so i’m leaving this here, tucked next to your sunglasses and gum wrappers, to remind you that i see you.

you, who always holds everyone else.

you, who deserves to be held back.

and i will, even when i’m a thousand miles away and the only thing between us is this folded-up piece of paper and all the love i poured into it.

be gentle with yourself today.

and text me a picture when you look cute (so like, immediately).

i love you like it’s etched into every part of me.

i can’t wait to come back home to you.

i love you.

yours,

luke.

you fold it up slowly, like it’s something breakable.

and for a second — even though he’s across the country, playing hockey in some freezing arena with screaming fans and bright lights — he feels close enough to touch.

you tuck the note back between your wallet and your travel-sized hand lotion.

your lips are trembling, but your heart feels full.

✴︎ in your makeup bag

it’s tucked beneath your brushes — a little rectangle folded with the edges curled, like it had to be squeezed between the palettes and tubes and tiny bottles that clatter around inside.

your heart stutters when you see it.

there’s something almost ridiculous about the way it hits you. because it’s not just a note. it’s him. it’s his fingers on the paper, his dumb little smirk while hiding it, the way he always acts like it’s no big deal even though he spent forever choosing the words.

you pluck it out slowly, smoothing the creases. you already know it’s going to make you blush.

hi beautiful girl,

you’re probably sitting there surrounded by all your little pretty things — the powders and balms and sparkly stuff you like — and i just want to say this:

you don’t need any of it.

but i love that you love it. i love the way you sit cross-legged and focus so hard. i love the way you poke your tongue out when you’re doing your mascara. i love how you talk to yourself in the mirror like you’re hyping up a best friend — because you are. and because you should.

and yeah, okay — maybe i also love how hot you look after. sue me.

you always look good. but when you do your little routine and throw me that “how do i look?” look, i’m already losing my mind before you even finish the sentence. like yeah. yeah, baby. you look insane. you look like every part of you was made for me to stare at. you always do.

also — if you’re packing this bag to go somewhere… text me. so i can remind you that no one’s allowed to flirt with you but me.

love you. want you. like all the time.

even when there’s glitter on your nose and lip gloss in my hoodie.

your biggest fan (and your boyfriend, but mostly your fan),

luke.

you press the paper to your chest for a second. laugh, because of course he notices the highlighter on your nose. sigh, because he makes even a makeup bag feel like a love letter.

you fold it up again and slip it right back where you found it — tucked under your mascara, hidden like a secret you get to carry around.

he’d be proud of how good you look today.

but you already know —

he thinks you’re breathtaking no matter what.

✴︎ in your sock drawer

it’s ridiculous how much you miss him.

you’re not even being dramatic. it’s just — the little things. the way the bed stays cold longer. the way no one’s there to complain about your freezing feet. the way his absence hums through the apartment like a low, aching chord.

you mutter under your breath as you dig through the drawer, trying to find the thick socks — the soft ones with stars on them. and then you see it.

a note. pale blue, folded with purpose.

you already know what it says before you open it.

you already know he was smiling when he wrote it.

sweet girl,

if you’re reading this, your feet are probably freezing.

again.

how do you always forget to wear socks around the apartment when it’s cold? and how are they always that cold? it’s insane. i swear your toes are made of icicles.

and i miss them. i miss you.

i miss the way you climb into bed and pretend you’re being subtle before pressing those frozen feet to my thighs like it’s some kind of punishment. i miss the way you giggle when i flinch. i miss the smug little smile you get after, all warm and evil.

i’d let you do it a hundred more times if it meant you were next to me right now.

you could turn the entire bed into a winter storm and i’d still pull you closer. because cold feet or not, you’re mine. and you belong tucked under my arm, with my hand wrapped around your ankle, complaining just to hear you laugh.

find the fuzzy socks. put them on.

and then, when you miss me, imagine me holding your feet and threatening to exile them from the blanket if they get too cold. (i never actually would. you know that.)

love you always, even when your toes are an act of war.

luke.

you laugh. out loud.

the sound bounces off the walls, and you feel a little less lonely.

you slide the socks on slowly, tug them all the way up, and whisper into the quiet room,

“i miss you too.”

and just like that — your feet still cold, heart warm to the brim — you feel like you’re wrapped up in him again.

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