It was the middle of winter at CMU. One of those weeks where the sky hovers in gray, the air bites, and the campus feels a little heavier than usual. The kind of season where you see people rushing between buildings with their heads down, not just because of the cold, but because the days are long and classes feel even longer.

As part of a class project called Objects of Attention, our challenge was to create a public installation—something tangible and physical that could exist out in the world. It didn’t have to be loud or impressive. It just had to make someone stop, notice, maybe even feel something.

My idea was origami flowers. I folded a dozen of origami flowers, taped an affirmation onto them like a little leaf, and stuck them into the frozen ground with wooden sticks. A small cardboard sign read:

Take one and give it to someone else.

At first, I was a bit intimidated. I was bent close to the ground, awkwardly driving the dull ends of wooden sticks into hardened snowbanks, fumbling with lightweight paper that wouldn’t always stay in place. All the while, students passed by, some casting curious glances, others pretending not to notice at all.

But, I wanted it to work, so I placed them next to the walkway of the middle point of campus where most people walked to and from classes. Then, I sat 30 or 40 feet away, pretending to work while actually watching people from the corner of my eye.

Some passed by without a glance.

Some paused, read the sign, smiled, and moved on.

Some picked up flowers, held them thoughtfully in their hands, choosing which one felt right.

I felt nervous and hopeful, wishing more people would stop, and a little sad when they didn’t. But at the same time, when someone did pause or take a flower or even just spent more than a few seconds looking as they walked by made it feel worth it.

Most of the people who picked up flowers were women. Men mostly passed by, eyes only where their destination was, though I did see one guy swipe a flower quickly and tuck it into his coat before continuing on. Maybe it meant something to him, too.

My favorite moment was a couple. They stopped, read the sign, and after a pause, the man picked up a flower and gave it to her. She smiled, laughed a little, and he did too.

It was an intimate moment between strangers—strangers to me, yet somehow connected through something I had made. Watching them interact with the flowers gave me this unexpected rush of fulfillment, like I had quietly entered their world without ever saying a word.

The thought that they might talk about it later, “Did you see those paper flowers on campus?”, made me feel like a small piece of me had traveled with them. That I had briefly existed in their story, even if they never knew who I was.

Later, someone used a pen (I had placed them on the sign as paperweights) to write a note on the cardboard:

“This is so amazing. Please continue doing this.”

I left to go to class with 1 flower left in the ground.

That day, I learned something about what it means to create.

It doesn’t always have to be complex or grand. Sometimes, the things that matter most are the smallest acts—the ones that feel almost too ordinary to be worth doing. Like giving someone a compliment on their outfit or opening a door for someone else.  But that’s the magic of design. You can build something that slips quietly into someone’s day and still stays with them. You can put a piece of yourself out into the world and never fully know the ripple effect it might cause.

I think that’s why this project meant so much to me. It reminded me that I want to design things that don’t just function, but feel. I want to build tools, experiences, and interactions that give people something—even if it’s just a moment of warmth, a second of connection, or a brief break from the weight of the day.

That’s why I care so deeply about product design and UI/UX. Because at its core, it’s about empathy. It’s about crafting things that make sense not just logically, but emotionally.  It’s about creating something that people remember, even if they never know who made it. It's about the quiet art of paying attention. It’s about designing for people you may never really understand—and still finding a way to say:

I see you. This was made for you with care.

♒︎.♒︎.♒︎.

When I went back at the end of the day to collect my sign with the paperweight pens, I couldn’t find anything. Everything was gone. I’ll never know if it was a cleaner who picked the sign up and put them in lost and found, the cold winter wind that blew it all around campus, or students, finding some useful spare pens and leaving a flimsy cardboard sign to fly away. But, that’s what makes it a bit special. The fact that the only thing left of this project is really just the legacy of connection. Nothing physical and only fleeting. Nothing to remember it by and a mystery to others and me.