Alexa Daskalakis

The Pen With the Diamond on Top​

They called it a girl’s pen. Pink. Shiny. Playful. They never asked why it stayed.

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They said it was a girl’s pen.
Pink.
Shiny.
Playful.

No one asked why it stayed.
Why it moved through winter
and boardrooms
and days that left no softness behind.

It was assumed to be for show.
But it wasn’t.

That pen —
with its plastic gem too large to be discreet —
was the one reached for
when gentleness had to be hidden
in plain sight.

Strength never needed guarding.
But tenderness did.

The diamond on top?
Not a flourish.
A refusal.

They called it sweet.
Laughed.
Looked away.

But the pen remembered.
The silence after dismissal.
The discipline of being watched.
The ritual of saying thank you
in the absence of kindness.

It wasn’t carried because of youth.
It was carried because something had already outlived it.

And time, not testimony,
was what finally made that legible.