You Don’t Have to Be Seen to Be Real

আমি একসময় ভাবতাম, আমার মূল্যবোধটিরই माप - “আমি”কতগুলি চোখকে

বছরগুলি धरे, I designed interactive stories meant to be seen—shared, liked, remembered. But one night, after a silent midnight session with a prototype that no one had ever opened, I asked myself: Does it still matter if no one sees it?

And then it hit me: Yes.

Because what if the most honest part of us lives in the unwatched moment—the code written not for applause but for meaning?

The Ghosts Behind the Screen

In my role as a narrative designer at an AR project called Echoes of the City, we built digital memories into city streets—messages from strangers that only certain people could hear. One user told me they’d cry every time they passed the same corner because their mother’s voice echoed there, though no one else could hear it.

That moment taught me something profound: the most powerful stories aren’t those with millions of views—they’re those that resonate in silence.

When Visibility Becomes Violence

We live in an age where being seen is equated with being valid. Algorithms reward attention like gold coins. But what happens when your truth doesn’t fit the algorithm? When your story doesn’t go viral?

I’ve watched creators burn out chasing engagement—rewriting their souls into shareable fragments just to be noticed.

But here’s what no one tells you: You don’t have to be seen to be real.

That sentence—written in my journal after a panic attack during a launch event—has since been quoted across three community forums by marginalized artists who felt erased by systems designed for visibility.

The Unseen Archive of Meaning

I started keeping an “unseen archive”—a private folder where I stored ideas too raw for public sharing: poems about grief under fluorescent lights, scripts about identity loss in multilingual homes. No analytics. No likes. Just truth. And slowly… I began writing again—not for platforms—but for myself. It wasn’t rebellion at first. It was survival. Now it’s ritual. Every evening before bed, I open that folder and whisper back into existence what the world tried to erase: The girl whose name was mispronounced every day at school, The daughter who carried her mother’s trauma like breath, The artist who once thought she had nothing left but pixels and silence.

A New Kind of Luck Game — Not For Winning But For Being —

The phrase isn’t just poetic—it’s practical armor against systemic erasure. In games like Lucky Pig, where players chase numbers and rewards under bright lights and loud sounds… there’s another game happening beneath it all—one played by those who know that luck isn’t always about winning.* The real luck is knowing you exist even when no system records your name.* So tonight—if you feel unseen—I invite you: open a blank document. Write one sentence only. No audience required. Just honesty. Pretend nobody will read it—and then write anyway. The universe listens differently than we think.