I used to think of the toy bear my ex-boyfriend gave me as nothing more than clutter—a small plush figure holding a fabric bouquet and a cardboard box, collecting dust on a shelf. He knew I didn’t like knickknacks, especially plush ones. I even joked once that I would’ve preferred a couple of burgers over “this unnecessary fluff.” We broke up not long after, life moved forward, and the bear simply stayed. It survived moves, reorganizing sprees, and every attempt I made to clear out things connected to the past. Somehow, it always remained.
One afternoon, my nephew picked it up. He studied its stitched smile and tiny bouquet and asked, “Why does this bear look like it’s waiting for someone who never came back?” He said it casually, the way kids often say oddly perceptive things without realizing it. I laughed, but the question lingered. It followed me while I made lunch, sitting quietly in the back of my mind.
That night, when the apartment was quiet, I picked the bear up again and really looked at it. The bouquet’s petals were fraying, the cardboard box a little bent, the ribbon softened with age. It looked worn in a way that made it seem almost sincere. Turning it over, I noticed details I had ignored—tiny initials stitched under its paw, a small embroidered heart, a faint vanilla scent that had somehow survived the years.
I began to wonder if the gift hadn’t been as thoughtless as I’d once claimed. Maybe I had been too quick to dismiss anything sentimental. I wanted practical things back then, things that made sense to me immediately. Maybe he was trying to show affection in a different way—one I didn’t recognize at the time.
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