I built him with my tiny hands — matchstick by matchstick.
There was no instruction manual. No adult hovering over my shoulder to fix mistakes. Just me, a quiet room, and a pile of fragile wooden sticks that splintered if I pressed too hard. I didn’t know exactly what I was doing — only that I needed to do it.

At first, it was just something to pass time. But as the hours went by, I realized I wasn’t just building a little dog. I was building a friend. One I could talk to without words. One who wouldn’t laugh at me when I was sad or confused. One who wouldn’t leave.

Every matchstick I glued into place carried something unspoken — the loneliness I couldn’t explain, the love I didn’t know how to ask for. He wasn’t perfect. His legs wobbled a bit. One eye sat higher than the other. His tail bent too far to the side. But to me, he was beautiful.

When I finally finished, I stepped back and smiled. It wasn’t just a craft. It was a piece of me. I imagined showing it to someone — maybe they’d be proud. Maybe they’d say, “Wow.” Maybe they’d just smile. That would’ve been enough.

But no one looked.
No one said anything.
They walked past like he didn’t exist.

I cried. Not because they didn’t see the matchstick dog — but because they didn’t see me.
All the quiet hours, the careful patience, the hope I had tucked inside every tiny piece of wood… ignored. Forgotten.

But even through the tears, I knew something:
He still mattered.
Because I built him out of something real.
Out of silence, and longing, and heart.

To them, he may just be wood and glue.
But to me, he’s the friend I made when I needed one most.
The voice I gave myself when I couldn’t speak.
The proof that even when the world feels quiet and cold — love can still be built, piece by piece.

And even if no one ever sees him…
Even if no one ever understands…

I will always love him.
Because he was never just a project.
He was a piece of me.