a contrived sort of chronology.

TELL ME YOUR HEART.

He flipped the paper over and scribbled. He didn’t think, didn’t breathe, didn’t stand or sit or blink. Just scribbled, and in turn, became scribbled himself in some strange twist of Zen.

I need you like the breath of life.
Sometimes I feel little more than dirt and dust.
You animate me. Thank you for not giving up on me.

Simon shoved it back under the door and put his against the damp wood. She was awake. He could hear her breath colliding with the door from the other side. There was a rustle, an uncrumpling, a scribbling, and another note appeared at his feet.

There is no giving up except when the poor give up their palms to the sky and feel the rain wash away the grime.
I will give up my hands.
Not my heart.