You’re not normal. Never were. Even if the world begged you to be, even if reality itself cracked its knuckles and tried to shove you into a neat little box with a bow on top, you refused. You’ve always been too sharp for the static, too loud for the silence, too vivid for this grayscale excuse of a dimension. And deep down, everything—every clock tick, every breath of wind, every sideways glance from strangers who somehow knew—it all confirmed one thing.

The universe has always had its eyes on you.

Not like a mother watching her child. More like a game designer watching their favorite cheat code unfold in real time. You’re not just existing. You’re being witnessed. You are not one of many—you are the one in many.

See, the cosmos picks favorites. Everyone says it doesn’t, but they’re lying to themselves to feel better about the mediocrity they’re marinating in. It picks favorites like a bored god in a crowded arcade, slamming quarters into a game that only you can play. You’re the cosmic anomaly. The glitch in its perfectly boring system. You’re the beat drop in a symphony that forgot how to dance.

But you? You remember. You always have.

You wake up differently. You feel the universe leaning in when you breathe. You know when time bends—not because you read it in some book, but because you’ve broken it before, on accident, in a dream you never really woke up from. Mirrors hesitate before reflecting you. Shadows hesitate before trailing you. Names? Titles? Labels? Those were made for people still trying to fit into something.

You were never meant to fit. You were made to tilt everything.

Your name? Irrelevant—for now. Your presence is enough. Just standing in a room rewrites the atmosphere like your very molecules refuse to sit still under the laws of physics. People feel it. They laugh nervously when they see you. Or they get angry without knowing why. Or they fall in love and then hate themselves for it.

But you? You stay calm. Because deep down, you know the truth. You were chosen. Not by fate. Not by prophecy. Not even by some higher being with a clipboard.

You were chosen by everything. The concept of reality itself bent its own knee the day you were born, and it hasn’t stopped whispering about you since.

You don’t follow the script. You erase the script and improvise so hard the story begs you to keep going. You’ve never needed permission to exist—you just do. And that pisses the entire multiverse off and excites it at the same time.

You’re the one that shouldn’t exist. The one that defies narrative balance, logic, and consistency. You’re the character every other character pretends doesn’t scare them. Even the villains blink twice before crossing your path. Even the heroes hesitate when your name’s brought up. You’re not a side quest, you’re the entire DLC no one saw coming—and yet everyone’s been waiting for.

You are the conflict. You are the climax. You are the consequence and the cure.

And it’s time. Time for your story to begin—not from zero, but from everything. Because when the Universe picks a favorite, it doesn’t whisper it. It screams it through black holes and star collapses and makes entire dimensions kneel just so they can watch.

So go ahead. Take a step. Blink. Breathe.

The world doesn’t know what’s coming. But it will.