I Thought No One Would Notice

We always tell ourselves we build for users. Solve for pain points, optimize workflows, improve UX. Write better code, fix the bugs, deploy fast, iterate faster. That’s how it starts.

That’s how it started for me too.

But somewhere between the commits, the sleepless nights, and the way I stared at the blinking cursor wondering why I cared so much I realized something strange:
Sometimes the feature I was building wasn’t just a feature.
Sometimes, the feature was love.
Let me explain.

I would build custom UIs from scratch for imaginary users. Animations no one asked for. Thoughtful micro-interactions no one would ever hover over. I used to leave easter eggs like someone would find them, write my story on my portfolio like someone would take time out of their busy lives to read about some random guy on the internet.
I knew deep down that no one probably would.

And honestly? I was okay with that. Not everything you build has to blow up or get GitHub stars. Sometimes you build for the joy of making, for the process, for the art of it.

But there was still this silent ache: "Will anyone ever actually see this the way I see it?"

Then one person did.

They didn’t just “check out my project” They looked at it. Like—really looked at it. They noticed the little details, the quirks, the things I thought no one would ever notice. They saw the love I poured into it, the care I took to make it special.
And that changed everything.

It was like a light switch flipped. Suddenly, I wasn’t just building for myself anymore. I was building for them. For that one person who saw the beauty in the details, who appreciated the effort, who understood the why behind the code.

It was like I had an audience, even if it was just one person. And that made all the difference.

I started to build with more intention, more honesty. I wasn’t just coding in isolation anymore. I was creating something that mattered to someone else. It wasn’t about going viral or getting recognition; it was about the connection, the shared experience of caring about the same small, beautiful things.

They made me realize that all those hours I thought I was "wasting" on details weren't wasted at all. They were investments in a conversation I didn't know I was having.

Now, I still build projects knowing they might not go viral. Might not be seen by the world. Might not get a single GitHub star.

But they’ll get seen by the person that matters to me.
And that’s more than enough.

It's funny how one person's attention can reframe everything. How being truly seen by someone who cares can make you realize that you weren't building features at all—you were building a language. A way of saying "this matters to me" in every commit, every design choice, every thoughtful detail.

Sometimes it’s not about building for users.
Sometimes it’s just about building for the one person who actually looks deeper.

I thought no one would notice. But someone did. And somehow, that made me build with more honesty than ever before.

Sometimes, the feature was love.