It was an ordinary Tuesday morning when I realized it was gone—the black rollerball pen with the slightly chewed cap that had been my companion through countless journal entries, grocery lists, and half-finished poems.
I’d searched everywhere: under couch cushions, between notebook pages, even inside my coat pockets from last winter. Nothing. After two weeks, I accepted its loss and bought a replacement—functional, sleek, but soulless.
Then, three months later, while reorganizing my desk drawer, there it was—nestled behind a stack of old receipts, ink still flowing smoothly, as if waiting patiently for me to return.
Holding it again felt oddly emotional. Why? It wasn’t expensive or rare. But it carried memories: the day I signed my lease with it, the note I wrote to a friend during a hard time, the doodles in the margins of meeting notes that kept me sane.
That pen taught me something small but profound: the objects we keep aren’t just things—they’re anchors to moments, feelings, versions of ourselves.
Maybe you’ve lost something recently—a key, a photo, a favorite mug. And maybe, just maybe, it’s not really gone. Or perhaps its absence has already made room for a new story.