In a world drunk on visibility, being no one special is a quiet kind of rebellion. No blue checkmark. No viral moment. No eulogy written in advance by strangers who never held your hand. You move through hours that leave no trace — a coffee shop, a bus seat, a bed turned down only by you.
And one day, when you’re gone, the world will not stop. But somewhere, someone will remember the way you poured tea, or how you listened without interrupting, or that you always left the last cookie for them. nadie especial
But here’s the strange mercy: