Later that night, back in the quiet of a small apartment, the reflection in the mirror didn't show a person with superpowers or a costume. It showed someone tired, with soaked clothes and messy hair. There was no sudden feeling of being powerful, but there was a sense of no longer being invisible to the world.
"Hey! Can you hear me?" I yelled, tugging at the driver’s side door. It was jammed. Inside, a woman in a nurse’s uniform was blinking vacuously, blood trickling from her hairline. "The back door!" someone shouted. I Am a Hero
Then I heard it—the screech of tires and the sickening crunch of metal. Later that night, back in the quiet of
Being a hero is not a career choice or a set of special abilities. It is found in the split second where a choice is made to prioritize someone else’s safety over personal fear. A hero is not someone who can fly, but someone who chooses not to look away when the world breaks in front of them. Inside, a woman in a nurse’s uniform was
The woman who had been rescued gripped the hand of the person who had pulled her out. "Thank you," she whispered. "That was incredibly brave."
The response was a simple shrug and a stammered, "Anyone would have done the same."