By Psykhe Azarraga
From the side, I don’t appear to have a nose.
It just vanishes—like it stepped out for a quick break and got distracted by something shiny.
I look like a character someone forgot to finish sketching.
A face with… a smooth interruption.
And it’s hilarious.
Every time I see a photo taken from the side, I think, “Well. At least my glasses showed up.”
But here’s the thing—
This nose?
It breathes.
And in a world that’s constantly trying to be seen,
sometimes just breathing is no small thing.
My nose has never been the main attraction.
No one’s ever said, “You know what’s unforgettable? That nose.”
It’s not cute enough to be charming, nor angular enough to be striking.
But it’s trained.
Not in any official capacity—no degrees or trophies involved—
but in the subtle arts:
detecting a burnt dinner from two rooms away,
wrinkling politely at nonsense,
and flaring slightly when sarcasm calls.
It’s not the kind of nose people write sonnets about.
It’s the kind you trust.
It’s weathered colds and tears and years of other people’s bad perfume.
It’s pressed gently into the heads of people I love.
It’s learned the difference between a fresh cup of coffee and one that’s lying to me.
It’s lived a full life of restraint and instinct:
the deep breath before hard conversations,
the slow exhale of release,
the sense—unspoken—that something needs gentleness,
not advice.
And I’ve started to realize…
maybe that’s not such a small thing.
We live in a world where we celebrate sharp features, loud opinions, and filtered angles.
But maybe the best things—
the most solid, wise, quietly beautiful things—
are the ones that know how to sense.
Not to lead the parade, but to hold the rhythm.
Not to shout, but to understand.
Not to be seen, but to make sure someone else feels noticed.
So here’s to the faithful features, the background players.
The noses that vanish in profile but show up for real life.
The parts of us that don’t crave applause, but carry the weight.
With humility.
With sensitivity.
And, honestly, with a lot of common sense.
Because when everything else fades,
what really matters is that you can still breathe—
and maybe help someone else breathe, too.
