Clicks and Quiet Hopes

My name is Faizal, and I’m from Malaysia.

She was passionate about her charity work. Always posting updates about fundraisers, social campaigns, or volunteer projects. I admired that. More than admired—I was captivated. There was something about her dedication that made me want to be part of it, even if she didn’t know me that way.

I didn’t start with anything big. Just small donations, here and there. Enough to contribute, but not enough for her to notice. I told myself it wasn’t about recognition—it was about supporting her cause. But deep down, I hoped she would see. Maybe comment. Maybe thank me personally. Maybe remember me.

Weeks turned into months, and I increased my contributions. I found her fundraiser pages, sent funds anonymously, and watched the total rise with a quiet thrill. Each time a “thank you” appeared for donors, I wondered: Was it me? Did she know it was me?

I never told her. Never asked for acknowledgment. I wanted it to feel natural, like my support was part of her life, not an attempt to buy her attention. But I lied to myself. I wanted recognition. I wanted her to look at me and think, “He cares.”

She never did.

Sometimes she posted photos with other volunteers or donors she met at events. She laughed, smiled, and thanked people publicly. But there was no hint that she ever knew I existed in that network, quietly giving everything I could.

It hurt more than I expected. More than it should have. I sat alone, staring at my own donation history, counting the money I had given over months. Money I could have used for myself. Money I could have used to meet her in person, or to do something meaningful for my own life.

But I kept going. Hoping. Waiting. That someday she’d notice me—not for the money, not for the donations—but for the thought behind them.

One night, I realized something. She wasn’t ignoring me intentionally. She simply had no idea. My hope for acknowledgment was meaningless because she never asked for it. My secret generosity was invisible. And in trying to make her see me, I had lost sight of myself.

I haven’t stopped supporting causes she believes in. I still care. But now I do it quietly for the right reasons—for the people who need it, not for her approval.

And maybe one day I’ll find someone who notices—not because I donate, but because I exist.

I’m Faizal. From Malaysia. And I learned that hope can’t be built on someone else’s oblivion.