We tend to think that numbers belong only to mathematics. They measure, count, add and subtract. Yet some numbers do not represent quantity at all. They represent an entire life.

For some people, the first thing that comes to mind is a year. A revolution, a birth or the day they lost someone. For others, it is a house number. The place where they grew up, where they first fell in love, where they began their journey through life. Some people remember a telephone number forever, even though nobody answers it anymore.

An athlete may cherish a jersey number. Not because it was printed on a shirt, but because wearing it made them who they became. A hospital room number may mean everything to a doctor. A military unit number to a soldier. The date of a concert to a musician.

Sometimes a single number holds more stories than an entire novel.

It is interesting how insignificant these numbers seem from the outside. If someone says thirteen, fifty-six or one hundred and thirty, most people hear nothing more than a number. But for the person to whom it belongs, an entire world is hidden behind it.

Perhaps we all carry a few numbers like that. Numbers that only we know are not really numbers.

They are memories.

I have a friend who is a woman.

Whenever we talk, sooner or later a certain number is bound to come up.

130

That is the size of her apartment in square metres.

At first glance it is nothing more than a fact. A number. But to her it means much more. That one hundred and thirty represents years of hard work, determination, a good decision, a home she is proud of and a lifestyle she built for herself. It is in a great location, beautifully furnished and it is also where she has her office. Whenever she talks about it, she is not really describing the apartment. She is telling the story of the road that led her there.

And I always smile.

Not at her.

I smile because I almost find myself waiting for one hundred and thirty to come up again. Sometimes I feel that no matter what we spend two or three hours talking about, that number somehow finds its way into the conversation. Every now and then I deliberately steer the conversation in that direction because I know it will come up sooner or later. She is sweet and proudly says it every time. She will probably smile when she reads this. Or she will say, "There you go teasing me again."

But I am not.

I have simply noticed that this has become her number.

Mine is completely different.

Five.

As a child it was just another number. Later it became a jersey number. Then it started appearing in more and more places throughout my life. At first I thought it was a coincidence. Later I was no longer sure.

The most important person in my life wore the number five jersey.

I am writing my fifth collection of essays.

Its title is simply FIVE. The title of the opening essay is The Five-Faced Miracle.

It is as if this number has quietly accompanied me throughout my life, and I only realised much later that it had always been there.

I do not believe that numbers determine our destiny. I do believe that we are the ones who give them meaning.

To an outsider, one hundred and thirty is simply the size of an apartment.

To me, it is the story of a friend.

Five, on the other hand, may mean nothing to anyone else. To me it is a system. A jersey number. A book. Memories. People. Perhaps even a little of myself.

Maybe that is why I like numbers.

Not because they define things precisely.

But because sometimes they tell us more about a ​_person than words ever can.

And if someone were to ask me one day what my favourite number is, perhaps I would not mention the number at all.

I would mention the person who gave it meaning.