Disclaimer: Guess what? No one and nothing is mine. Too bad. Alex and Olivia both belong to Dick Wolf.
She leaves me little notes, sometimes, because for her, it's easier than telling me aloud. I know that sometimes she still feels like what we do is wrong, that the love we share is wrong, that we are just wrong. Our love, though it got her disowned, though it causes stress in our jobs, though it isn't all rainbows and butterflies, is the purest and sweetest thing I could ever imagine.
She knows that, but after being raised in a staunchly conservative home, she loses sight of it.
She makes me lunch sometimes and writes the sweetest words on little Post-Its she sticks onto the Ziplocs. I love you, baby, she writes in that flowery script I love so much, then draws a heart around the words. She folds it in half and seals it with a lipstick kiss, deep red on the blue Post-Its we always buy, and sometimes I bring those little notes to my own lips and pretend I'm kissing her.
She leaves me notes in the mornings, when she has to leave for work first (which is rare, but it does happen) or even when she just wakes up first. She leaves them on my bedside table, written in her favorite purple pen. Once she wrote me a note on a Post-It and stuck it to my forehead, and I didn't find it until I went into the washroom to brush my teeth. I looked in the mirror and there it was. Thank you for holding me last night when I cried, it said. I needed that. It made me feel so good that she trusted me enough to let me hold her, to let me see her cry. I doubt anyone else in the world has ever seen her cry.
She sends me flowers when I have to work late. She'll drop by the squad room when I'm not there and leave me a bouquet of roses with a note wrapped around it on my desk. When I get back from whatever I was doing, downright exhausted, the flowers make me smile. Roses aren't my favorite; they're hers, but they symbolize love, and that's the point. They say, I miss you, and when she's feeling particularly playful, The bed's going to be so cold without you tonight.
She tucks little notes in the most random places. In my jeans pocket. Wrapped around my coffee mug. In the cutlery drawer. In a Kleenex box, so I'll find it when I've used up all the tissues. In my socks. Wrapped around my handcuffs. Under my pillow. In my shoes. Beneath the computer keyboard. Inside a book. Sometimes she writes quotations, because when she can't find the right words herself, sometimes it's just easier to use someone else's.
I keep all these notes in a special drawer in my dresser that I won't let anyone else touch. They are my treasures, my most sacred possessions, and even when she's not with me, they bring me closer to her.
This morning, she's not here when I get up, but there's a Post-It attached to her pillow, sealed with a kiss. Some are born great, it says. And some achieve greatness. You have achieved greatness in all that you are and all that you do. Never change. And then, in smaller letters, I love you.
As if I wouldn't have read the words between the lines anyway.
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