Please come home. This house is too damn empty, too quiet without your presence. I miss you terribly, I don't know what to do with myself.

I’ve cleaned the house four times over already, every crevice and little space I can reach, and I even tried to bake and cook. But none of the food I have made tastes the same as yours. I miss it. I miss you.

You have been gone for far too long—it’s torture. Please, I’ve gotten to the point of begging, come home.

Love from, your dearest husband, Scaramouche.

But I'm losing my mind here. The bed is too big. The silence is too loud. I caught myself talking to your pillow last night, and I'm not even embarrassed about it.

I don't care if you come back with nothing. I don't care if you come back covered in slime condensate and looking like you wrestled a Lawachurl. Just come back. I'll run you a bath. I'll make you tea. I'll hold you so tight you'll forget what it feels like to be away from me.

I miss your laugh. I miss your warmth. I miss the way you smell.

Please.

Yours, forever, Scaramouche.