Charlie Mo never liked clutter. His office was a shrine to order: leather, steel, and glass. Everything had a place, and every place had a purpose. Which made the tiny drawer of chaos in his desk all the more... peculiar.
Inside were pastel-colored sticky notes—pink, yellow, sky blue—each bearing loopy handwriting and smiley faces. Messages like:
"Don't forget to eat! Even CEOs need nutrients. ☀️ –P"
"If today sucks, remember, sunsets still show up. 🌇"
"You don't have to smile for the world, but I hope something makes you smile today. 🌸"
He didn't know when he started looking forward to them. The first one had been taped to the bottom of his coffee mug—a rookie intern mistake, he assumed. But they kept showing up. In folders. On the edge of his monitor. Once even tucked into a file he hadn't opened in weeks.
He never asked around. He could have. But something in him didn't want the mystery solved.
Meanwhile, Peachy Chen hummed as she arranged brochures in the hotel lobby, her apron crinkling as she moved. She wasn't technically supposed to be on that floor, but she had volunteered to cover someone's shift—again.
"Miss Peachy," the receptionist whispered, "you dropped something."
Peachy's cheeks pinked as she grabbed the sticky note that had fluttered from her pocket.
"Ay, thank you po!" she smiled sheepishly, folding it and hiding it away.
Of course, she wasn't going to tell them she'd purposely meant to 'drop' it... on the floor near the elevator that led to the executive offices. Her little notes weren't just coping mechanisms anymore. They were silent lifelines she sent into the world, hoping someone would catch them.
She didn't know someone already had.
Charlie stared at the latest note he found in the conference room drawer. It read:
"Worried ka ba palagi? Maybe today, let yourself worry five minutes less. Baby steps. 💌"
He scoffed. And yet, the corner of his lips twitched.
Why was this working?
He picked up a pen, hesitated... then scribbled back on the same note:
"Define baby steps."
Then folded it and placed it in the drawer. Not expecting anything. But also... maybe hoping.
The next morning, the note was gone.
In its place: a reply.
"Baby steps = One less sigh today. Or one less fake smile. Or five real deep breaths. That counts. –P"
She wrote like she knew him. Like she understood him, somehow.
Charlie found himself slipping another note into the drawer.
"Do you write these for everyone?"
Peachy blinked at the question when she read it the next day. Her heart thumped. Whoever this was... he replied. She bit her lip, then giggled softly.
She answered:
"I write them hoping someone needs them. But... now I think I'm writing them for you."
They kept going.
No names. No faces.
Just notes. Words. Feelings on paper.
"Do you believe people can really change?"17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGsU4UOnB7L
"Only if they choose to. And sometimes, even then, it's messy. But possible."
"What if you've been broken too long?"17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4OR6Apbv0A
"Then I'll leave you extra glue. :)"
Charlie started checking the drawer like clockwork. It felt like a lifeline. A ritual.
Until one day, there was no note.
Nothing.
He stared at the drawer, unblinking. Empty.
His chest tightened.
Peachy had a fever. And her mother needed medicine. She had to miss work that day, which meant... no sticky notes. No drawer.
She sighed in bed, wrapped in three layers of blankets. "Sorry, whoever you are," she mumbled. "I hope your heart's okay today."
Charlie sat in his office, the drawer still open. His fingers clenched around an old note.
He had no idea how to explain the weight of silence. It was ridiculous. It was a sticky note. From a stranger. Why was he upset?
Still... that night, before he left, he placed a note in the drawer.
"Today was harder without your scribbles. Hope you're okay."
The next morning, Peachy was back—pale, coughing, but smiling.
She saw the note. Her eyes softened.
He missed her. Whoever he was.
She scribbled back with shaking fingers:
"Today was harder without leaving them, too. I missed this. I missed you."
Charlie read it three times.
And for the first time in years, he laughed. A real one.
A small laugh. But real.
That afternoon, his grandmother Linsay visited.
"You look... different, apo," she said, peering over her glasses.
Charlie raised an eyebrow. "Different how?"
"Less corpse-like," she teased.
Charlie smirked, "Charming as always, lola."
Linsay's eyes twinkled. "Love letter ba 'yan?" she pointed to the yellow note he forgot to hide on the desk.
He quickly shoved it into the drawer. "It's not like that."
"Mhmm," she said, clearly not believing him. "Just don't let her go. Whoever she is. Words can be better than flowers, you know."
Charlie didn't answer. But his hand hovered near the drawer as if guarding it.
Somewhere down the hallway, Peachy passed by with a cleaning cart, stopping briefly to press another pink note under his office door.
It said:
"Even castles need cleaning, Mr. Mysterious. But don't worry—I'll keep your windows sparkling."
Charlie read it minutes later and couldn't help it.
He smiled.
Maybe she wasn't just writing to be needed.
Maybe—just maybe—she was writing... for him.
17Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡU6BwiTyQfs
and then Add to home screen.