I found your handwriting in an old notebook today. It was a grocery list, nothing romantic: bread, eggs, coffee, and the chocolate you liked but always pretended you didn't want. At the bottom, you'd added, “Don't forget to call me when you get there.” I remembered that afternoon immediately. You were waiting at home while I took a short trip for work, and you wanted to know I'd arrived safely. Back then, being loved meant someone cared about the smallest details of your day. I used to think those ordinary moments would always be there, so I rarely stopped to appreciate them. We spent so much time imagining the big things we'd do together that we overlooked the quiet life we were already building. I don't know where you are now, or whether you still buy that chocolate. I only know that today, standing in my kitchen with a shopping list in my hand, I missed the feeling of being expected home by someone.