It had become a game.
One played out in absolute silence.
A game without rules.
Every morning, I wrote a note and placed it deep in his lunch box.
A thought, an idea, or a question.
I never missed a day.
He never acknowledged or commented.
I never asked, though I often wondered why.
On my thirtieth birthday, he quietly handed me a beautifully wrapped gift.
A scrapbook, containing every note I’d written to him.
Underneath each one, his inspired responses.
Sketches, poems, quotes, and colourful lines of love.
Game, set and match.
His voiceless tactics produced a match winning masterpiece.
Originally published: 101 Words
