My ex-boyfriend once gave me a toy bear holding a bouquet in one paw and a little box in the other. He knew I hated clutter, and I joked that he should’ve bought me burgers instead of “that rubbish.” We broke up soon after. That was three years ago.
Last week, my nephew was playing with the bear when he suddenly said, “Why does it look like it’s waiting for someone who never came back?” I laughed — but the comment followed me all day.
I hadn’t thought about that bear in years, yet it survived every move, every purge, every half-hearted donation attempt. That night, alone, I picked it up. The fabric petals were frayed, the box softened with time. I noticed things I’d ignored before: a stitched heart on its chest, initials under one paw, a faint vanilla scent still clinging to it.
I remembered him standing there, hopeful, nervous, offering it to me. I’d assumed it was thoughtless. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe I was too focused on what I didn’t want to see what was being offered.
The bear isn’t a symbol of heartbreak anymore. It’s a reminder of growth — of learning not to dismiss softness just because it arrives imperfectly.
I placed it gently on the shelf by the window. Sometimes, even the things we once called “rubbish” turn out to be quiet teachers.
