The room holds its breath. Dim light pools in soft golden circles, leaving the corners in shadow.
My gaze stays fixed on the box—on the melting cream leaking from its edges, dripping slow and quiet. Each drop a small surrender to the warmth it cannot escape.
Then a shuffle. Paper against marble. Another note slides beneath the door. The edge catches the light—white, thin, impossibly patient.
I take it. My fingers hesitate for a moment—reluctant, like they don't want to be part of this.
I don't know which flavor you like. I hope you like this one. It's vanilla.
Vanilla.
The words sit in my palm. Simple. Unassuming.
Like he didn't just spend minutes choosing them. Pressing too hard. Writing carefully. Starting over.
"Do you think I'm a child?" My voice comes out quiet. Not sharp anymore. Just tired. "Bringing me ice cream like I'm five years old?"
Another note slides in. Patient. Unhurried.
It might make your mood better.
I stare at the words.
It might.
