I've never been a morning person. My hair's a mess, my pajamas are rumpled, my blankets are tossed all over the bed like a hurricane blew over and I'd slept right through it. It takes me a whole ten minutes to muster the courage to get up and face the day.

That's become a lot harder, recently. 

I walked blearily into the kitchen, pushing the memorized buttons for my large cup of coffee. Slumping down into a plushy armchair, I tried to organize my thoughts. I had a work meeting at seven, so I could pick up a rotisserie chicken from Lowe's on my way home...

Something caught my eye, and I glanced over at the coffee table, blinking at the square spot of color. Beside it was a marker, lying perfectly parallel to the edge of the note. 

I bent forward and picked it up. 

Suddenly, my day got easier—happier. I smiled. I never knew where his notes were going to be. 

It had been one of those three a.m. FaceTimes, where you talked about the randomness things and didn't remember them in the morning. We'd found our way to ghosts, and he had asked, on the off-chance that he die before me, how I would want to be haunted. 

"Leave me notes," I'd said. "Just let me know you're there."

I looked back at his scrawling handwriting.

Hey Sunshine! Hope you slept well. Just wanted to tell you I love you before you go. Safe driving!     

P.S. I found your sandals. They're under your bed. 

I set the note down and poured my coffee into a travel mug, taking a quick trip upstairs to grab my shoes. I grabbed my purse and paused at the door. 

I love you, Ricky, I thought. Thank you.

And I walked out the door, locking it behind me. 

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In case it wasn't clear in the piece, which I know it wasn't, Ricky died in a car accident, and now his ghost leaves her little notes every morning, but she can't talk to him or see him. She can only write down things, and she goes through several pads of paper.