The bedroom lamp cast a warm glow over the sheets, and I paused in the doorway, watching Lila. She was sitting cross-legged on our bed, her beige belly dress swapped for a soft purple nightgown (matching the ribbon she loved), and our memory box open beside her. In her hand, she held the small note she’d written about the blue ocean, and her fingers brushed the swatch of yellow dress tucked inside. “Just one more thing,” she said, glancing up at me with a sheepish smile. I shook my head, walking over to fluff her pillow—the one with tiny lavender and seashell embroidery, the pair to mine. “Sleeping on the pillow is better than staring at memory boxes at midnight,” I said, grinning. She laughed, setting the note down and leaning back against the headboard. “You’re right,” she admitted. “But I just… wanted to make sure we didn’t miss anything.”
Our pillows had been a gift from Marisol, back when we moved into the beach house. “Every couple needs a pillow that feels like home,” she’d said, handing us the linen cases. Lila’s was stitched with lavender (her favorite flower) and small seashells (our favorite souvenir), while mine had banana vines (a nod to our endless baking) and the outline of the lighthouse we’d visited. Now, as I sat beside her, I pulled her pillow onto my lap, running my hand over the embroidery. “Remember the first night we slept here?” I said. “You were so nervous about the ocean sounds, you kept hugging your pillow like it was a shield.” Lila’s cheeks turned pink, and she nudged my shoulder. “I was not! Okay, maybe a little,” she said. “But then you pulled me close, and I listened to your heartbeat, and… it felt safe. Safer than any pillow.” I kissed her forehead, setting her pillow back in place. “But the pillow helped,” I said. She smiled, nodding. “It did. Sleeping on the pillow is better when it’s next to yours.”
We climbed under the covers, Shell trotting onto the bed and curling up at our feet—her usual spot, right between our pillows. Lila turned off the lamp, and the room filled with the soft sound of waves from the ocean outside. She snuggled closer, her head resting on my chest, and I wrapped my arm around her, my hand brushing her curly hair. “Today was nice,” she mumbled, her voice sleepy. “The ocean, the muffins, Shell chasing seagulls.” I nodded, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Tomorrow will be nicer,” I said. “We can bake banana bread, add that new seashell to the box, and maybe take Shell for a swim in the cove.” She hummed, her breath warm against my skin, and I felt her relax—slow, soft, like she was finally letting go of the day’s little worries.
When I woke up the next morning, the sun was streaming through the curtains, and Lila was gone. But her pillow was still warm, and on top of it, there was a small piece of paper—folded into the shape of a seashell. I picked it up, unfolding it, and smiled at her handwriting: “Sleeping on the pillow is better when you’re next to me. I’m making coffee—come find me when you’re awake. P.S. Shell stole your sock again.” I laughed, glancing down at my feet—sure enough, one sock was missing. Shell looked up at me, her tail wagging, and I shook my head, leaning over to fluff Lila’s pillow. It still smelled like her—lavender shampoo, a hint of mint from that cigarette on the terrace, the soft sweetness of banana muffins.
I found Lila in the kitchen, wearing her purple cap and stirring a pot of coffee. The banana bread was already in the oven, its scent filling the room, and Shell was sitting by her feet, chewing on my missing sock. “Morning,” Lila said, grinning when she saw me. I walked over, wrapping my arms around her waist and resting my chin on her shoulder. “Morning,” I replied. “Your note was cute. And Shell’s a thief.” She laughed, turning in my arms to kiss me. “Sleeping on the pillow is better when you’re not snoring,” she teased. I feigned offense, but my smile gave me away. “I do not snore,” I said. She raised an eyebrow, sipping her coffee. “Sure you don’t. Just like Shell doesn’t steal socks.”
Later, we sat on the porch, eating warm banana bread and drinking coffee, Shell curled up between us. I held up my pillow—bringing it outside to air out—and Lila leaned her head against it. “You know,” she said, “these pillows are more than just pillows. They’re… us. Lavender and seashells, bananas and lighthouses. All the little things that make our life.” I nodded, squeezing her hand. “And sleeping on the pillow is better because it’s a part of that life. A part of you.” She smiled, leaning up to kiss me, and the sun hit her face—bright, warm, like the feeling of waking up next to her, our pillows still soft and warm from the night before.
That night, when we climbed into bed again, Lila wrote another note—this one tucked under my pillow: “Sleeping on the pillow is better with you. Forever.” I found it when I lay down, and I turned to her, grinning. “You’re cheesy,” I said. She laughed, snuggling closer. “But you love it.” I kissed her, slow and soft, as Shell curled up between our pillows. The ocean waves sounded outside, and the room was quiet—calm, safe, perfect.
Love isn’t just about grand moments or big gestures. It’s about the small things: a pillow stitched with lavender and seashells, a note folded into a seashell, a puppy stealing socks. It’s about Lila, in her purple nightgown, her head on my chest, her breath warm against my skin. It’s about knowing that sleeping on the pillow is better—not because the pillow is perfect, but because the person next to it is.
And as I drifted off to sleep, holding her close, I knew—our love would be like those pillows: soft, warm, forever. Exactly how we wanted it.
