To the Pen That Could Not Be Refilled
The day I walked into the stationery store,
I thought
I was simply there
to buy a new pen.
It should have been easy.
Pick one.
Pay.
Go home.
Like any small thing
that runs out
and can simply
be replaced.
But as I wandered
between the shelves,
picking one up,
putting it back,
picking up another,
putting it back,
I realized
it wasn't that simple.
I was looking
for a particular pen.
Cream white.
With a transparent
pastel-blue grip.
The one
I used to write with—
until it ran dry.
I thought
there had to be another one.
After all,
it was only
a pen.
But I couldn't find it.
To the new white pen,
you looked gentle.
Closer
than any of the others
waiting on the shelf.
I picked you up,
hoping
you might be enough.
At least,
from a distance,
you seemed capable
of carrying me
across
that unfinished feeling.
But the moment
I held you,
I knew
you weren't the same.
Not in a way
I could explain.
Just one of those things
you recognize
the instant
you touch them.
So,
I put you back.
And kept walking.
Still searching
for the same thing,
even though
a new choice
was already
in my hand.
To the old pen
I had forgotten,
while I wandered
between the rows,
picking one up,
putting it back,
again
and again,
it felt
as though
I was trying
to choose
something
far beyond
a writing instrument.
And then,
I saw you.
You weren't
displayed prominently.
You hadn't caught
my eye
at first.
Yet somehow,
you had been there
all along.
I couldn't remember
the last time
I used you.
I couldn't even remember
why
I had left you behind.
But when
I picked you up,
the weight
felt strangely familiar.
I clicked
the tip
gently.
The ink
still flowed.
Like something
I believed
had already
run out—
when in truth,
it had only
been left aside.
So,
I chose you
again.
Not because
you were better.
But because
you were still there.
To the smallest feeling,
I used to think
changing the refill
would be enough.
But when
I looked
a little closer,
I realized
the refill
I had been searching for
had never existed
in the first place.
I tried
replacing it anyway.
The pen
still fit
comfortably
in my hand.
But the tip
was different.
The color
was different.
Even though
it still wrote.
Even though
it was still
the same pen,
it never
wrote
the same feeling
again.
It was still
a gel pen.
Yet somehow,
the ink
looked darker—
almost
like a ballpoint.
The line
was finer.
The feeling
was different
from every other pen.
It seemed
replaceable.
But in truth,
nothing
was ever
quite like it.
That was
when I began
to understand.
Some things
we believe
can simply
be refilled...
were never made
to be refilled
the same way.
But the strange part was,
while I was
writing this,
the pen
actually disappeared.
Not the one
that had run dry.
The brand-new one
I had just bought.
Along with
the one
I had carefully
ordered
a refill for.
I searched
for quite a while.
Across the desk.
Under the desk.
Into every corner,
thinking
maybe
it had rolled away
somewhere.
I turned on
the light.
Went back
to the places
I had already checked.
Then searched
them
all over again.
Like someone
hoping
that if they looked
often enough,
what had disappeared
would quietly
find its way
back.
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