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Shane wrote in the car. He wrote on the couch of Ilya’s house in Ottawa and his own apartment in Montreal. Ilya often woke up to find him in bed with a pen in his hand, scribbling.
It wasn’t until they got to the cottage that Shane forgot to put one away, or throw it out, whatever he did with them when he’d used all the available space. Ilya found one on the kitchen table, a well-worn, lined bit of paper with deep creases just lying there as he was trying to clean up. He hesitated for just a second. If Shane wanted him to see them, wouldn’t he have said something by now? But also, Ilya was beginning to feel jealous of these papers, for knowing things about Shane that he didn’t.
Ilya unfolded it, holding it delicately between his fingertips. I want to be able to pick out produce at the grocery store, it read. I want to go for a run on the beach. I want to schedule our dentist’s appointments at the same time because it’s easier. I want to have a picture of him in my wallet. I want to kiss him at the farmer’s market in front of the stand with all the blueberries when he insists we get some because I like them.
(ilya wants to know what shane is writing down on his little notepad... obviously it is love)
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😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️
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fucking hell this is so sad yet sweet