The Specific Shade

My hand hovered over the table longer than it should have.

Red.

Black.

Blue.

I picked one up, put it back, then reached for it again.

We rarely talk about that part.

We talk about the gift itself. The exchange. The reaction.

But not the quiet seconds before a decision is made.

The row of journals looked almost identical at first glance.

Bright reds that demanded attention.

Heavy blacks that looked ready for boardrooms and legal briefs.

Safe corporate blues that would have worked for almost anyone.

None of them felt right.

Then there was that one specific shade.

It was not loud. It did not call for attention from across the lot.

It was a quieter colour, the sort that disappears into the background until the light catches it at just the right angle.

The sort of colour that reminds you of a particular Thursday, a shared joke, or the exact temperature of an evening you did not realise would stay with you.

I stood there longer than I should have.

Because choosing a colour is a surprisingly personal thing.

It is a quiet gamble.

A small way of saying, I think I know a piece of your mind.

An admission that you have been paying attention.

Days later, a message arrived.

“I love the colour.”

And just like that, the gamble cleared.

Nugget: It turns out the slimmest of margins is sometimes measured in a single drop of ink.