I noticed your pen on the table and waited a minute before moving it.

I’m on my lunch break and I’m choosing to text you instead of scrolling.

I put a note under your cereal box that just says come later.

I keep a crumb of your biscuit in my pocket as a ridiculous souvenir.

I told the barista your order by habit and felt foolish and fond immediately.

I grabbed an extra napkin because you always spill when you laugh.

I walked past the bakery and bought the pastry you said you liked.

Your left mug has the chip; I still use it because it’s yours.

I want to say plainly: I like you more than I expected to today.

I keep finding reasons to walk past your building on my lunch.

I’m craving your messy pancakes, not because they’re perfect but because they’re yours.

I want to tell you something small: your pen is in my pocket.

My phone buzzed and I hoped it was you—then I smiled anyway.

I’m looking at the clock and counting the minutes until you text back.

I miss the way your jacket smells on the chair at noon.

I’m halfway through my salad and wishing you were here to taste the dressing.

My office coffee tastes dull; thinking of your black mug makes it better.

Lunch break and I keep checking my phone for a photo of your sandwich.

I'm sending this from the park bench where I wanted you beside me.

My phone dimmed but your message brightened the rest of the day.

Texting you now because lunchtime felt oddly empty without saying your name.

The clock hit twelve and I wanted to hear your voice for thirty seconds.

Lunch bell rang and I realised I'd choose you over the whole menu.

I reheated your leftovers and paused because I wanted to text you instead.

No dramatic lines, just: I want to sit with you this afternoon.

I tucked the spare charger into my bag because I know you forget yours.

My calendar had a blank hour and I kept imagining spending it with you.

Midday slump hit and thinking of you was the cheap, perfect fix.

The sandwich line moved slow and I kept replaying your joke to stay patient.

Phone buzzed with your name and the rest of the day rearranged itself.

Forgot my umbrella but remembered how you fold yours; that little thing steadies me.

My watch says noon and I can't stop thinking about your laugh this morning.

Lunch tray still warm; I saved you the last piece of quiche.

I want to bring you a snack later; what would make your afternoon better?

I’m pausing my lunch because I want to hear how your morning went.

I carry the warmth of your last message with me through the afternoon.

I keep replaying your joke from breakfast; it’s helping me through a long meeting.

I’m counting three emails then I’m walking outside and picturing you there.

My lunch tasted better because I remembered you eating the same thing last week.

Your sticky note with the half-drawn sun is pinned to my monitor.