There are no heroes.
Only the trying. The wanting to be good. The reaching toward some light we swear we saw once, in stories, in dreams, and before we learned how heavy a human hand could be.
We say we’d save the world, say it like a vow, like a prayer, like something that could be true if we just meant it hard enough. But meaning is a fragile thing. It bends. It breaks. It wears down under the weight of all the days we spend not saving, not even seeing the ruin we walk through.
We are the only creatures who carve our own wounds and then forget the knife. Who numb ourselves to consequence, to reward, to the very stakes we claim matter. Who build fires and call ourselves heroes for standing near their warmth.
Hero. Icon. Savior. These are not words for us. They are not words for the trembling, the failing, the coming up short again and again. We do not call a human “hero” when they wake up, when they bleed, when they love poorly or too much. We call them human, and that is the one thing a hero will never be.
So we keep them distant. Unreal. A star we can steer by but never touch.
Because if we admitted that heroes breathe, that they break, that they are us—what then? Would we still call it saving when we’re the ones who set the fire alight?
It’s okay not to be a hero—heroism is not human.
And the world is only ever mended by human hands.