SAGEGREEN - BUŸ BOUQUET
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I had a little gap between tasks today, so I went to a shop just to buy a pen.
Not a fancy reason. Just a pen.
It was one of those clear, cool winter afternoons, and I realized I hadn’t walked around outside like that, without a purpose, for a long time. Long enough that just being free for an hour almost made me cry.
I don’t like talking about myself.
If I talk about being busy, it somehow sounds like bragging.
If I talk about work, people start imagining things I never meant to show.
Even talking about what kind of whiskey I like feels like I’m accidentally revealing my bank balance. It’s all exhausting.
Once words leave your mouth, you lose control of them.
People misunderstand. They add their own meaning.
Then you either have to explain yourself or get tired of being judged.
Both options are annoying, so I usually pick silence.
Even saying “I’m tired” can sound arrogant to the wrong person.
If the listener happens to be a guy with fragile pride, it turns into a weird competition or a quiet resentment.
Either way, I lose.
So yeah, I avoid opening up. It’s just less trouble.
People are also strangely casual about other people’s privacy.
They “sing” personal information as if it’s harmless.
Sometimes it feels less like carelessness and more like enjoying the feeling of “knowing something.”
That tiny sense of superiority.
I try not to hate people, so I also try not to give them material to work with.
I bought the pen at my favorite stationery shop and went straight to a café to test it.
It wrote beautifully.
The kind of smooth that sends a quiet shock of happiness up your spine.
For a second I almost jumped out of my chair like an idiot.
And then, strangely, I thought:
“I want to tell someone about this.”
That surprised me.
Wanting to share something this small.
And having a person you want to share it with.
That might be what trust feels like.
Or rest. Or something dangerously close to love.
There are people in this world I would never tell about buying a pen.
So why do I want to tell you?
Is it trust?
Is it dependence?
Is it just boredom pretending to be something deeper?
Or is it… love? That seems dramatic. Probably too dramatic.
I shook my head like I was trying to erase the thought.
If I ever get married, maybe it’ll be to someone who keeps making me want to talk about pen-level events forever.
And every anniversary I’ll probably say, “Thank you for listening to my pen stories,” like a weirdo.
Later, I sent the message.
“I went to a shop. Bought a pen. It writes really nicely.”
A completely pointless report.
And yet, a reply came back immediately.
That was enough.
Enough to make me think, yeah… I’m glad I told this person after all.
Enough to almost make me cry again.
I also wondered why I wanted to write this at all.
For readers. For strangers.
Trust, maybe. Rest, maybe.
A weaker, thinner version of love.
I’ll be 40 this year.
I live off small happiness.
Which probably means I can also be destroyed by small unhappiness. I know that very well.
People say congratulations. I say thank you.
I don’t know how long I’ll keep being called the same name, or living as the same version of myself.
I could quit everything anytime.
Still, I’m genuinely happy to get older. That feels like luck.
Life ends.
Laughing or crying, it ends the same way.
Wrinkles will increase. Hair will turn white. My sense of the present will fall behind. My legs will slow. My eyes will fade.
And one day, this body will quietly be done.
Before that happens,
how many more pen-level moments will I get?
And how many people will I meet who are willing to listen to those moments?
Thinking about that feels a little too loud, so
for now, maybe I’ll just drink that usual whiskey tonight.
That story too, I’d like to tell you.
It was February.
