The card was waiting on my breakfast table like it had walked itself there in the night. Heavy cream paper. Sharp edges. His handwriting—disciplined, unhurried, the kind of script that knows where it’s going before the pen touches down.
I want you to know I am aware of every choice I make around you… Sleep well tonight. You’re safe.
—B
I read it twice standing, once sitting, and a fourth time with my head tipped back like the ceiling might need to be included. “You’re safe.” The words settled low in my ribs, the way warm water finds the deepest place in a glass. It wasn’t a promise tossed like confetti. It was a weight. It made everything else lighter.
I propped the card against the salt shaker beside the ribbon, a tiny altar of patience and proof, and texted him before I could start d
