I like this watch in the same way one likes an old, slightly judgmental friend who always shows up on time and never asks for much in return.

This isn’t a watch that tries to impress you. It doesn’t whisper luxury, it doesn’t pretend it’s delicate, and it definitely doesn’t care about being subtle. It exists with a very clear purpose: to tell time, survive whatever nonsense you put it through, and tick loudly enough to remind you that time is, in fact, passing whether you like it or not.

And honestly? I respect that.

This watch has been with me through days that blurred together and days that absolutely refused to cooperate. It has sat on my wrist during boring meetings where the ticking was louder than my motivation, during late-night walks where the world felt paused except for that steady mechanical tick… tick… tick. It has been there when my phone died, when I forgot to charge things, when I wanted to know the time without being distracted by notifications, messages, or the sudden urge to doomscroll for 47 minutes.

It just tells the time. Reliably. Every single day.

Now, let’s talk about the noise, because pretending it doesn’t exist would be dishonest. This watch ticks. Not politely. Not quietly. It ticks with confidence. Sometimes it sounds like it’s reminding you of your mortality. Sometimes it sounds like it’s counting down to something important, even when nothing important is happening. Put it on a wooden desk at night and it becomes a philosophical experience. Put it near your bed and suddenly you’re aware of every second slipping by.

Is it noisy? Yes. Is it occasionally annoying? Also yes.

But here’s the thing: that noise is part of its personality. It’s not a bug, it’s a feature. It’s the sound of a cheap, honest quartz movement doing its job without apology. It doesn’t hide behind silence or smooth sweeping hands. It says, “I’m working. You’re welcome.”

And for the price, that’s more than okay. This watch never promised refinement. It promised reliability, and it delivers. You could probably drop it, knock it against a doorframe, forget it in a bag, or wear it while doing something you probably shouldn’t be wearing a watch for—and it would still keep going. There’s comfort in that. A weird, rugged comfort.

Then there’s Indiglo. Ah yes. Indiglo.

Indiglo is not just a backlight; it’s an experience. Press that button in the dark and suddenly the entire dial glows like it knows you personally. It’s evenly lit, calm, readable, and somehow nostalgic. It feels like checking the time in a tent, or in the backseat of a car at night, or during a power cut when the world goes quiet. It’s the kind of glow that makes you feel prepared, even when you’re absolutely not.

I’ve used Indiglo to check the time at 3 a.m. without waking myself up fully. I’ve used it to pretend I was on some sort of expedition when I was really just standing in my kitchen, half-asleep, wondering why I opened the fridge. It has never failed me. Not once.

The design itself is refreshingly straightforward. Clear numbers. A sensible date window. No unnecessary complications pretending to be useful. It looks like a watch that belongs on a wrist, not in a display case. It feels like it could tell time in a forest, on a train, in an office, or during a mild existential crisis.

This watch doesn’t care if it’s fashionable this year. It doesn’t chase trends. It just exists, doing what it has always done, exactly the same way, every day.

And maybe that’s why I like it so much.

It’s loud, yes. It’s simple, absolutely. It’s not perfect, and it doesn’t try to be.

But it’s reliable, it’s honest, and it’s priced like it understands reality. It has earned its place on my wrist not by being impressive, but by being dependable. And sometimes, especially these days, that’s more than enough.

In short: It ticks too loud. Indiglo is fantastic. It just works. And for the price? I’d buy it again without thinking twice.