Charlie Mo had a system.
His office drawers were arranged alphabetically. His desk calendar was color-coded. Even his bottled water was lined up based on expiry dates.
So when he opened his drawer and found a bright yellow sticky note with the words "Today deserves a little softness, like marshmallows and mercy" written in swirly pink ink...
He stared.
Then blinked.
Then stared again.
"Another one?" he murmured, holding the note up like evidence in a courtroom.
He glanced around his office. No one. Just the hum of the aircon and the weight of his deadlines. The note wasn't signed, of course. Like the last one.
This one wasn't on his coffee cup. It was in his drawer. That meant someone intentionally opened his drawer.
Which was weird.
Which was... disturbing.
Which was... oddly comforting?
Charlie rubbed his temples. "This is absurd. I'm losing my mind."
Yet he couldn't stop his lips from curling—just slightly.
Peachy, meanwhile, was at the service elevator with a cleaning cart, nervously adjusting her cap.
"Don't get caught," she whispered to herself, heart pounding.
It had become a strange, spontaneous tradition—leaving tiny notes in places she cleaned or passed through. At first, it was for Patty's co-workers. Then she found herself scribbling extras... and slipping one near the executive desk where he sometimes sat.
She didn't know his name.
Just that he wore sadness like a well-tailored suit.
And that when she looked at him—briefly, secretly—he always seemed tired. As if he forgot how to exhale.
So maybe, just maybe, a small note could help.
Today, she left one in a drawer.
Yes, medyo creepy. Yes, probably illegal. But what if it made him smile again?
Charlie didn't throw the note away.
Instead, he placed it next to the first one on the small divider in his drawer. Then, without thinking, he closed it softly—almost protectively.
What the hell was happening to him?
He who didn't believe in random kindness anymore. He who stopped writing poetry years ago. He who got cheated on, dumped, and publicly embarrassed by Maia Hee, a woman with a PhD in betrayal.
And yet—he was treasuring sticky notes written in pink.
Sa board meeting, he caught himself staring into space. His assistant nudged him twice before he realized they were already on page 11 of the proposal.
That night, Peachy returned home, exhausted from her shift and a three-hour tutoring gig. Her mother, Rose, was seated in front of the TV again.
"Anak, 'di mo pa yata nababayaran 'yung kuryente," she said without looking.
Peachy placed down her backpack. "Nagbigay na po ako last week, Ma."
"Ah. Baka kulang. Hindi ko na matandaan."
Patty passed by the living room, arms crossed. "It's fine, Peachy. You're used to being the safety net anyway, right?"
Peachy bit her tongue. "Masaya naman akong tumulong."
"Yeah," Patty muttered. "You always are."
Later that night, Peachy opened her notebook—the one full of sticky notes. Some were messages she never gave anyone. Others were quotes she made up when the silence got too loud.
She tore one and wrote carefully:
"Maybe the world doesn't need saving. Just small notes that say: I see you. I believe you'll be okay."
She smiled, then folded it.
Tomorrow, she'd leave it again.
The next morning, Charlie arrived at work earlier than usual.
He told himself it was for productivity. But really, he wanted to check the drawer.
He sat down slowly, almost ceremoniously.
Opened the drawer.
No note.
He frowned.
"Okay, I'm not disappointed," he lied to himself.
But then—he saw something wedged under the keyboard.
He pulled it out.
A light blue note this time.
"Maybe the world doesn't need saving. Just small notes that say: I see you. I believe you'll be okay."
Charlie exhaled. For the first time in weeks, the breath didn't hurt.
He read the note again. Then again. Each word clung to him, like the scent of old books or a lullaby half-remembered.
Who are you?
He wanted to know.
But some part of him was scared to ruin the magic.
In the pantry, Patty stared at Peachy with narrowed eyes.
"You've been humming lately."
"Huh?"
"You're glowing."
Peachy giggled. "Baka kasi nabilad ako sa araw?"
Patty raised an eyebrow. "Hindi ka ba 'yung nagbigay ng brownies sa executive floor kahapon?"
"Maybe."
Patty crossed her arms. "Don't get attached to people like Charlie Mo. Hindi 'yon fairy tale."
Peachy tilted her head. "Pero paano kung kailangan lang niya ng fairy tale, ate? Kahit pa isa lang... sa sticky note?"
Patty scoffed. "Hay naku. Gullible princess talaga."
But Peachy just smiled. "At least this princess knows how to hope."
Charlie, on the other hand, had started collecting the notes in a small compartment in his wallet. He still hadn't told anyone. Not even Linsay, his grandmother, who was usually the only one he confided in.
The notes felt personal.
Intimate.
Sacred.
His phone buzzed again. Another message from Maia:
"Still pretending you're okay? You were softer when you were mine."
Charlie didn't reply.
He walked to his drawer and slid it open—there were three now. Yellow, pink, and blue. Sunshine, marshmallows, and hope.
He ran a thumb over the latest one, then did something uncharacteristic.
He wrote back.
On a blank sticky note from his drawer pad, he scribbled:
"Thank you. Whoever you are."
He left it beneath the keyboard.
The next morning, Peachy arrived early—earlier than usual.
She cleaned silently, heart beating faster as she reached the desk.
She was just about to place the next note when—
She saw it.
A reply.
Her eyes widened. She covered her mouth with both hands, fighting back a squeal.
He wrote back.
The Ice King actually wrote back.
"Thank you. Whoever you are."
Peachy stood there frozen, a mix of shock and giddy confusion.
Then—she carefully placed her note next to his.
This one read:
"Sunshine doesn't ask permission to shine. Neither should you."
Then she tiptoed out like a cartoon thief escaping with a treasure.
That day, Charlie arrived and found two notes waiting.
His and hers.
Side by side.
It felt like... a conversation.
A secret.
A blooming.
And for the first time in years, Charlie smiled not because he had to...
...but because something—someone—reminded him what it meant to feel.
END OF CHAPTER 3
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