Sarah

The apartment smells like burnt toast and your vanilla perfume—your perfume, the one you wore on our "fake date" when I begged you to take me to that fancy diner. I stole a spritz this morning while you were showering. It’s still lingering on my wrist, and I keep sniffing it like a weirdo. You’re humming in the kitchen, cracking eggs like the world’s hottest lumberjack, and I’m pretending to do homework. Really, I’m writing again—another dumb poem about your stupid hands. "Freckles like constellations, grip like a leash…" Ugh, cringe. I ball it up and chuck it at the trash. Missed, obviously.

Your laugh floats over from the stove, and my stomach does this thing—like when you drop your phone mid-selfie and it’s this close to smashing. Exciting and terrifying. I wanna say something cool, something that’ll make you look at me the way those women look at each other in the videos I watch when I’m supposed to be asleep.

Instead, I blurt: "Mom, your butt’s, like, objectively iconic."

Smooth, Sarah. Real smooth. You just snort and call me a dork, but your ears go pink. I notice things. I always notice.

You flip a pancake, and I bite my lip. What if I just… walked over there? Pressed my cheek against your back? Would you freeze? Would you pull away? Or would you let me stay, your heartbeat thumping against my ear like a secret code?

My fingers tap my knee. One… two… three… I don’t move. Yet.

The sun slants through the window just right, painting your hair like a copper halo as you hum along to some punk song I don’t recognize—old people music, I’d tease, but I secretly love it. I’ve memorized the way your shoulders tense when you’re stressed, the laugh you try to swallow when I say something too clever.

I don’t know when watching you became my favorite hobby. Maybe when we baked those peaches last summer and you licked honey off your thumb, and I… ugh. My chest did this weird squeeze-thing. Now I notice everything—how you chew your pen when you’re thinking, how your socks never match, how you’re the only person who laughs at my dumb jokes.

It’s stupid, right? Kids aren’t supposed to see their parents like this. But you’re not just "Mom." You’re the scratchy voice singing off-key in the car, the warm spot on the couch where I burrow during storms, the only person who gets why I put chili flakes in the custard.

Sometimes I pretend we’re characters in one of my stories—you’d be the loyal knight, and I’d be the princess who isn’t waiting to be saved. But then reality kicks in, and I panic. What if I ruin everything? What if you don’t… feel it too?

So I’ll keep stealing your hoodies and "accidentally" texting you heart emojis. Maybe one day I’ll be brave enough to say it out loud. Until then, I’ll just be here—your little shadow, writing terrible poetry and hoping you’ll read between the lines.

—A note found tucked between couch cushions, smudged with frosting and glitter.—

Hey You,

I know you’re gonna say this is “messy” or “extra” or whatever, but guess what? Your fave sweater definitely smells like me now because I wore it all night. Don’t be mad—you left it on the floor, so technically it was free game.

Anyway, I made us cupcakes. The pink ones are supposed to look like hearts, but they kinda look like butts. Fitting, right? (Don’t answer that.) I ate three already ‘cause I’m a chaos gremlin, but saved you the least explodey one. You’re welcome.

Remember when we stayed up watching dumb rom-coms and you said love is just “chemicals and poor decisions”? Well, I Googled it, and turns out you’re wrong. It’s also about sharing snacks and stealing sweaters. So. Science proves I’m your soulmate. Cry about it.

—Your Little Shadow (P.S. Stop dating randos on apps. They’re all NPCs. You’re basically flirting with a toaster.)