It was in his handwriting.
The message was short but broke me. “I know this perfume isn’t much,” it read, “but I’m saving for the necklace you’ve always wanted. Thank you for believing in me, even when I don’t say it enough. You are my forever gift.”
I sat on the floor, clutching the note, tears streaming faster than I could read. That little bottle — the one I’d overlooked — wasn’t the gift itself. It was a promise. A quiet proof that he had been listening, planning, loving me in ways I hadn’t noticed.
Now, the bottle sits on my nightstand. I’ve never used it. Not out of guilt, but because it holds something sacred. His love. His intention. The last message he left me, hidden inside something I nearly discarded.
Every night, when I glance at it, I remember what he showed me without words: love doesn’t always come wrapped in sparkle or grand gestures. Sometimes, it’s tucked inside the smallest moments, waiting for us to truly see. And sometimes, the real meaning of a gift only reveals itself when the giver is no longer here.
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