It’s strange how some things enter your life with no intention of making a statement — no promise of significance, no hint that they’ll remain. You don’t remember the moment they appeared. They didn’t arrive with fanfare. They simply started to exist beside you. You carry them. You use them. You rely on them, a little more than you realize.
For me, it was a watch. A Timex Waterbury, plain-faced, dark-strapped, practical in that deliberate, unfussy way. It didn’t sparkle. It didn’t buzz or flash. It told time — that’s it. Not in a poetic way. Not in a nostalgic way. In a way that simply made sense. It fit. It worked. And over the years, it stayed.
I don’t remember when I bought it. Probably on a day I had more on my mind than I could manage. Probably a week full of small, unremarkable errands. The kind of week that disappears in memory unless something interrupts it. But the watch — it made no such interruption. It just started counting the seconds of my life, one by one, quietly.
It became part of my uniform. Along with the same few shirts I cycled through, the same shoes worn down at the heels, the same bag with the broken zipper I never bothered to fix. I didn’t wear it to impress. I didn’t even wear it to be punctual. I wore it because it was there, and because I knew I’d glance at it eventually.
That’s the thing about certain objects: they don’t need to be remarkable to become important. They just need to be there long enough.
The Waterbury was with me on early mornings when I stood in line at coffee shops, half-awake. It was with me on the train, watching the world speed by. On late nights at the office. On longer nights walking home. In those in-between hours when I wasn’t sure what the next step was, or whether I was even facing the right direction.
It wasn’t symbolic. It wasn’t dramatic. It just kept ticking.
At first, I didn’t notice. Then, I started to depend on it. And eventually, it became a quiet kind of presence — one that I didn’t need to think about, but one that would feel oddly wrong to go without.
Sometimes I’d forget to put it on. Those were the days I’d check my wrist unconsciously a dozen times, as if time had disappeared entirely. A small gap where something was supposed to be. Not absence, exactly — but something close to disorientation. The way you feel when a daily routine changes without warning.
I never adjusted the watch for fashion. Never swapped out the strap. Never polished the glass. It aged exactly as I did — slowly, visibly, but without apology. A scratch here. A loose buckle. A fading logo. Not signs of failure. Just evidence of time. Proof that it had been worn, not just owned.
I think there’s value in that.
In an age where things are designed to be replaced, where every object is expected to upgrade itself, there’s something quietly radical about keeping the same watch for years. About letting it change alongside you, instead of trading it in when it no longer looks new. The Waterbury didn’t resist time. It moved with it.
There’s a kind of honesty in that. It didn’t pretend to be more than it was. It didn’t perform. It didn’t try to become part of copyright. It was just there, keeping time — even when I didn’t know what to do with it.
I remember one afternoon — nothing special — sitting alone on a park bench. I was between things. Not lost, not found, just… in the middle. The kind of moment you don’t think to write about. I wasn’t waiting for anything. But I looked down at the watch and realized it had been ticking since the last time I’d looked at it, an hour earlier.
And somehow, that felt meaningful.
Not because the time mattered. But because it had passed. And the watch had carried it gently, without making a sound.
That’s what it did best. It didn’t demand attention. It never reminded me to check in. It never made noise. But it was always present — a steady measure of a life not marked by highlights, but by persistence. Quiet mornings. Repeated routines. The gentle cycle of doing what needs to be done.
There’s a comfort in that kind of repetition. In something that doesn’t change unless you ask it to. A counterpoint to the endless alerts and messages and updates that define modern life. The Waterbury wasn’t trying to be smart. It was just trying to be there.
And it was.
Even when people came and went. Even when plans changed. Even when I felt like I was moving in circles. The watch didn’t care. It didn’t judge. It didn’t push me forward or hold me back. It just ticked — steady, even, patient. A small metronome for the background rhythm of being alive.
When something stays with you long enough, you start to see it differently.
The Waterbury wasn’t a symbol of time. It was time itself — or, at least, the way I lived inside it. A reflection of all the hours I didn’t remember clearly. All the small decisions that didn’t feel like decisions at the time. All the moments I would later forget — and the moments I never wanted to.
Wearing the watch became a kind of practice. A reminder that time is not something to conquer or control, but something to notice. To respect. To move with.
You can’t rush a minute. You can only live inside it.
Eventually, someone asked me why I still wore it. “You could get something newer,” they said. “Something with more features.”
But what could be more useful than something that does one thing well, quietly, without interruption?
There’s a certain freedom in simplicity. In not being connected to everything all the time. The Waterbury didn’t track my steps or light up with notifications. It didn’t tell me who was calling or whether I’d met my productivity goals. It only told me one thing — where I was in the day.
And some days, that’s the only thing I needed to know.
I think we underestimate the value of objects that don’t try to change us. That don’t try to optimize us. The Waterbury wasn’t a coach, or a motivator, or a data point. It didn’t demand more. It just offered what it had — time, broken into seconds, handed to me without judgment.
That’s a kind of generosity.
Now, years later, it still works. Still keeps time like it always has. It’s not perfect. The case is worn. The crystal is scratched. The strap has seen better days. But it doesn’t need to be flawless. It just needs to show up — and it does.
It’s not about nostalgia. It’s not about legacy. It’s not about clinging to the past. It’s about recognizing that some things don’t have to be replaced to be relevant. That function and familiarity can be enough. That quiet can be powerful.
That a watch that never asked to be noticed can end up meaning more than anything that tried.
And maybe one day, I’ll pass it on. Not as a gift, not as a message, but as an object that carries time — not just mechanically, but personally. An object that stood beside me in all the days I don’t have photographs of. All the ordinary hours that shaped who I became.
Until then, it stays on my wrist.
Still ticking.
Still quiet.
Still here.