some drawings♡

I’m always late to trends

[Madoka Kaname]

written by: Homuka Maguneta

I’m not quite sure when I started to notice Madoka as more than just a character in a story. Maybe... It was when I realized that her smile held something more than simple kindness. There was worry, fear, and a kind of hope that was barely holding on—yet still endured. From that moment, Madoka no longer felt like fiction. She became a mirror for those who live quietly—giving, loving, and holding others’ pain without ever revealing that they too are hurting.

Madoka reminds me of people who live with empathy as their first instinct. Those who help not because they have much, but because they know what it’s like to have nothing. Those willing to carry the weight of the world just so their friends won’t fall. People like that are often invisible in a society that praises success over kindness. They're seen as "too nice", "too soft", or even "naïve" by a world that runs on the logic of self-interest.

But that’s exactly where Madoka’s quiet magic lies, she stands as a symbol of radical sincerity—a sincerity that doesn’t obey cost and benefit. Maybe if I place her within a socio-political context, Madoka feels like a silent rebellion against a system that constantly forces people to be tough, competitive, and individualistic. She’s a small voice in a deafening system. In the real world, people like Madoka are often volunteers, remote teachers, or mothers who sacrifice everything for their children. They’re not headlines. But the world endures because of them.

There’s a tragic irony I keep reflecting on, sometimes i even crying quietly in the middle of the night: that the world needs people like Madoka—but rarely offers them a safe space. They give until they are worn thin. They are soldiers without armor. And on a broader scale, Madoka reminds me of the many women in history whose voices and sacrifices were misunderstood—or erased. Gentle souls who spoke when others stayed silent. Like peaceful activists seen as threats. Like a child speaking about justice and dismissed as naïve.

I also think about spirituality when I look at Madoka. Not in the religious sense, but in the deeper meaning of sacrifice and transcendence. Her decision at the end of the story wasn’t just heroic—it was the highest form of ego surrender. She didn’t just save others; she gave up her very existence to make space for hope. In many spiritual traditions, that’s seen as a form of enlightenment. But in the context of being human, it’s also deeply painful—because not everyone who chooses to give is ready to lose themselves in the process.

And I... ask myself: "Can I ever be like Madoka? Or maybe, how often have I secretly wished someone like Madoka would appear in my life, maybe?"

Maybe all of us know a Madoka in real life—someone who stayed when everyone else left, who never asked for anything in return, who hid their sadness just to make others smile. And maybe... we too were once someone’s Madoka, even if only for a brief moment.

And I keep wondering: “how could someone like Madoka stay kind, even when she knew her kindness wouldn’t change everything?”

The answer, perhaps… is that Madoka never helped to change the world. She helped just to make sure that one person could hold on. One smile. One hope. That was enough for her. And in a world obsessed with massive change, we often forget that saving just one person.. means saving their whole world.

In a broader sense, Madoka represents a hidden form of collective hope. She’s not a charismatic leader or a revolutionary hero. But she is the embodiment of a quiet dream—that somewhere in this world, someone will choose to give not because they want praise, not because of status, but simply because their heart can’t remain still. Maybe that’s why so many people quietly cry when they see Madoka’s sacrifice. Because deep down, we know that kind of hope is becoming rare. And expensive.

I’ve also been reflecting on how society often molds women—or anyone in the role of the giver—into a narrative of eternal sacrifice. As if they only have worth when they’re giving. As if they’re not allowed to stop, to be angry, or to be tired. Madoka becomes a symbol of the “hero who must never break,” and that mirrors how we treat so many in real life. We glorify sacrifice, but forget to ask: Did they ever want to be saved too?

And it makes me wonder... Did Madoka ever want to be saved?

I think she did. But she buried that desire deep within herself. Just like many people who quietly wish the world would be gentler with them—but never dare to ask. Maybe because they feel unworthy. Or maybe because they’ve been the safe place for others for so long, they forgot what it feels like to return home to themselves.

There’s a kind of quiet sadness in all of this. Not one that explodes—but one that lingers. Because in the end, Madoka becomes both an illusion and a warning. An illusion of ideal hope. A warning that hope often grows from wounds we’ve left unattended for too long.

And well, i’m actually sobbing while writing this, ehe.

I don’t think Madoka is perfect, and that’s exactly what makes her deeply human. She didn’t know what to do. She was confused, afraid, without a grand plan. But she chose—she chose to stay kind. And in a world that can be so cruel, choosing to stay kind might be the most defiant act of all.

And as I close today’s journal, I can only hope and pray:

May this world not be filled only with those who long to be saved, but also with those who quietly choose to become like Madoka. Not because they want to be remembered, but because they cannot be anything else but light—even if that light might be the first to disappear. And may those who reflect Madoka’s spirit in this vast world finally find a space where they can express themselves freely, without always having to be someone else’s home.

Sori Arito Asora.