The note was placed on the blue kitchen counter top, folded in a haphazard way, the edges not lined up. The paper was crinkled, seemingly used, like an afterthought. I gently reached out and took it from its perched place into my palms, hoping it wasn't what I thought it was. 

It was, of course. 

A note from you. I held my breath as I took each fold and opened your words up, smoothing the creases against the counter. I became anxious, wanting every wrinkle to be gone. This was your gift to me, why should it have these markings all over it, distorting your beautiful words, each written by your hand. 

I laid the paper in front of me, and let my weight be carried by my hands gripping onto the edge of counter, my knuckles white and red all at the same time. I gazed at this piece of paper, with three simple lines upon it:

Don't want you to think of this as some cliché of any kind, so I'll keep it simple.