I’ll meet you at the bakery at eight if you want to talk.

I’ll stop interrupting you; I want to hear the whole thing this time.

I want to rebuild from the plain truth: I was wrong, and I’m sorry.

I put fresh milk in the fridge because you always forget it.

I still laugh at the same stupid memes you send, even when I’m upset.

I’m willing to sit through the awkwardness if it means we can try again.

I left a note in your book where we stopped reading together.

I don’t have grand lines—only a promise to keep showing up.

I noticed you prefer your tea with two sugars; I remembered.

I want to be someone you can rely on again.

I found your mixtape in my glovebox and listened to it three times.

I’m sorry I made plans without checking; from now on I’ll ask you first.

I want to earn back what I lost by doing the small, steady things.

I fixed the loose button on your coat and left it on the hanger.

I’ll learn to apologize without adding excuses.

I want to rebuild trust by being honest, even about boring things.

I’ll stop scrolling when you text so I actually read what you wrote.

I still care, plainly and without drama.

I remembered the haircut you said you wanted and booked the appointment for you.

I don’t have fancy promises, just a willingness to fix the small stuff.

I left your keys in the bowl where you always put them.

I’ll show up when I say I will this time.

Your handwriting on that note made my day; keep leaving me things.

I regret how I shut down, and I’m asking for another try.

I still want to learn your playlist and sing the songs badly with you.

I’m sorry for the nights I wouldn’t talk, and I’ll do better.

I want to try again, even if it’s slow and awkward at first.

I feel proud telling my sister about the time you fixed the heater.

I promise to answer the door at midnight when you come home from work.

I will carry your heavy bag up stairs without making it a thing.

I feel a simple joy when your playlist starts and I know your mood.

I want to be the one who packs your lunch when mornings are rushed.

I notice your penmanship and the way you cross your t's; it feels familiar.

I like that you reheat coffee twice and still drink it, stubborn and human.

I want to learn to fix that squeaky door hinge you always ignore.

I love the mismatched socks you keep using; they fit you.

I notice the way you tighten your shoelaces and think about small rituals.

I want to sit with you in silence and have it be enough.

I love that your jacket smells faintly of rain even after weeks.

I feel grateful when you check my hand in a crowded room.