I've read the same novel four times.

The cover is worn.

The pages are yellow.

The corners are bent.

It's the kind of book that feels like an old friend.

Whenever life becomes too loud—

I read it again.

Last winter—

I pulled it from my bookshelf.

Made tea.

Sat beside the window.

Everything felt familiar.

Until something slipped from the pages.

A bookmark.

Handmade.

Brown paper.

A small pressed flower.

I frowned.

It wasn't mine.

At least...

I didn't think it was.

I picked it up.

Turned it over.

Written in blue ink—

"If you're reading this again..."

I stopped breathing.

I knew the handwriting.

My wife.

I looked at the date.

Ten years earlier.

Back when we were still dating.

I searched my memory.

Nothing.

How had I never noticed this?

I kept reading.

"If you're reading this again..."

"I hope life has been kind to you."

"I hope you still laugh at the same parts."

"And I hope..."

"...I'm still sitting beside you."

I closed the book.

My eyes filled immediately.

Ten years ago—

we used to read together every Sunday afternoon.

One book.

One couch.

Two cups of coffee.

Somewhere along the way...

life became busy.

The reading stopped.

The Sundays changed.

But apparently—

she had hidden this bookmark inside the book.

Waiting.

For a future version of me.

I walked into the kitchen.

She was making dinner.

I held up the bookmark.

She looked.

Then covered her mouth.

"Oh..."

"I forgot about that."

I smiled.

"You remembered enough to hide it."

She laughed softly.

"I wondered if you'd ever find it."

I asked—

"Why didn't you tell me?"

She shrugged.

"Because then it wouldn't be a surprise."

We sat together.

I asked—

"What made you write it?"

She looked out the window.

"I wanted to leave something for the person we'd become."

I stared at the bookmark.

She smiled.

"I hoped we'd still be together."

I reached for her hand.

Then asked—

"Were you worried?"

She nodded.

"A little."

"I knew we'd change."

"I just hoped we'd change together."

That evening—

we made fresh coffee.

Sat on the couch.

Opened the novel.

Just like we used to.

Before we finished—

I took another bookmark.

Turned it over.

And wrote—

"If you're reading this ten years from now..."

"I hope we're still choosing the same couch."

I slipped it into the last chapter.

Maybe one day—

we'll find it again.

Because sometimes—

the best love letters...

aren't mailed.

They're patiently waiting between the pages.