“Other than for my work?” I’d asked, and she’d only raised a very judgmental, very expertly threaded eyebrow. The Sex Therapist Eyebrow of Knowing How Rarely You Date. Her planner, it’s a soft pink leather with a gold button closure, and I hope she sees the irony.

Now I pick up my favorite pen, a fine-tipped Micron—not symbolic, I hope, of any future dating prospects—and tap it idly against the weathered wood countertop that’s functioning as my work surface today. It’s quiet in the shop, only thirty minutes to close on a Sunday. The neighborhood regulars don’t come around much on the weekends, knowing the place will be overrun by visitors from across the Bridge, or tourists who’ve read about the cozy Brooklyn paperie that Cecelia’s managed to turn into something of a must-see attraction, at least for those who are looking to shop. But they’re long gone by now, too, bags stuffed full of pretty notecards, slim boxes of custom paper, specialty pens, leather notebooks, maybe even a few of the pricey designer gifts Cecelia stocks at the front of the store.

Back when I worked here more regularly, I relished the quiet moments—the shop empty but for me and my not-symbolic pen and whatever paper I had in front of me, my only job to create. To play with those letters, to experiment with their shapes, to reveal their possibilities.

But today I’m not so welcoming of the quiet. Instead I’m wishing for some of those Sunday shoppers to come back, because I liked it—all the noise, all the people, being face-to-face with brand-new faces. At first I thought it was simply the novelty of having my phone put away for so long—a forced hiatus from those red notification circles that stack up in my social media apps, likes and comments on the videos I post, the ones I used to do for fun but now are mostly for sponsors. Me showing off brush-lettering pens I don’t even use all that regularly, me swooping my hand through a perfect flourish, me thumbing through the thick, foil-edged pages of some luxury journal I’ll probably end up giving away.

Eventually, though, I realized it was more than being away from the phone. It was the break from that master task list I’ve got tacked above the desk in my small bedroom, the one that’s whimsically lettered but weighted with expectation—my biggest, most important deadline ratcheting ever nearer and no closer to being met. It was the relief of being away from the chilly atmosphere in my once-homey, laugh-filled apartment, where these days Sibby’s distant politeness cuts me like a knife, makes me restless with sadness and frustration.