He left a note in my locker every day for a year. I found them all at once.
She never opened her old gym locker. When she finally did, 312 folded notes spilled onto the floor.
I stopped going to the gym after the breakup.
Couldn't face the parking lot where we used to meet.
My locker stayed rented. I just never went back.
A year later the gym called.
Clear out your locker or we donate everything inside.
I drove over on a Wednesday.
The combination still worked.
The door swung open and paper fell out.
Dozens of folded notes.
They hit the floor like confetti from a parade nobody attended.
I picked one up.
His handwriting.
Day 1. I came to the gym hoping you'd be here. You weren't.
I picked up another.
Day 34. I bench pressed your favorite weight today. Thought you'd laugh.
Another.
Day 112. I still check the parking lot for your car.
There were 312 notes.
One for every day of the year he came looking for me.
I sat on the locker room bench with a pile of paper and a chest full of something I thought I'd buried.
The last note said: Day 312. I'm going to stop coming. But I'll never stop hoping you open this.