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I sent it under the door, listening for him to pick up the paper against the door. The rustle and wrinkle of the paper sounded from his hands, and I heard his little chuckle echo softly through the room. It was good enough for me.

I heard his steps go grab something and he came back, writing on the paper as I could hear the pen tracing over the words deeply into the paper.

He sent it under the door, as I grabbed it before it could make its way any further.

The paper was just how I had drawn it, except a box had been checked off. And some words that had made me chuckle were left on it.

It read' I'm fucking fine, Bambi'

I wrote on the bottom of the paper, writing out my question to him.

What broke?

I sent it under the door, and I heard him pick it up against the wood floors. He tore his own paper, and wrote out his own answer, I had hoped.

He sent it under the door, keeping the other note with him. Probably he had trashed it.

My phone