My name is Marco. I’m a nurse. Today, I cried quietly in the hallway—and no one noticed.

This morning, I sat with two patients as they took their final breath. I held a grieving father in my arms, offering him what little comfort I could in his moment of unbearable loss. I washed the hair of a man who, in a soft, fragile voice, whispered, “At least I’ll leave this world clean,” before clinging to my hand one last time.

I give my all—care, presence, warmth—every day to those who need it most. But somewhere along the way, I forget to offer the same to myself. I don’t need applause or recognition. I don’t need the spotlight. But maybe, just maybe, a voice saying, “Hey, Marco,” would remind me that I’m not invisible.

Some days, the weight of others’ pain becomes my own. And that quiet hallway, where I allow my tears to fall unnoticed, feels like the only place I can truly be human, even if just for a moment.

Maybe if someone noticed, if someone cared enough to ask how I’m holding up, I wouldn’t feel so alone in the midst of it all.