I don’t know why I keep doing this.

Every time I press a note onto the table, every time I walk out without looking back, I tell myself this is the last one.

And yet, here I am again.

It’s become second nature—coming here, sitting at my usual table, leaving behind thoughts I would never say out loud. But today, as I peel another post-it from my notepad, a thought lingers at the back of my mind.

Does he even read them?

I don’t know.

He never reacts. Never acknowledges them. Not in any obvious way, at least. The notes are always gone the next time I come in, but that doesn’t mean anything. Maybe someone else tosses them. Maybe they get lost in the shuffle of empty cups and crumpled napkins.

Or maybe… maybe he does read them.

I let out a slow breath, tapping my pen against the paper before writing,

"I keep leaving these notes and wonder—do you even read them? I like to think you do."

- J

The words feel vulnerable in a way the others haven’t.

I hesitate for half a second before pressing the note down beside my coffee cup.

As I stand, I force myself not to look toward the counter. Not to search for any sign that he’s noticed.

But as I step outside and slide into my car, I can’t help but imagine it—

Him finding the note. Him reading it. Him wondering about me the way I wonder about him.