I just… I didn't go. The reunion. Twenty-fifth. My phone was buzzing all night, people sending pics, blurry faces I kinda recognized, everyone laughing. And I just stared at it. At the phone. At my own reflection kinda ghostly on the dark screen, half-lit by the notifications. And I felt this… *ache*. Not for them, not really, but for something else. For the me that used to be. The one who wouldn’t have hesitated. The one who would’ve been *excited*. It's ridiculous, I know. My husband, bless his oblivious heart, asked if I was feeling okay. Said I looked a little pale. Pale. Yeah, that's one word for it. I told him I had a headache. Which, honestly, wasn't a lie. My head was pounding, a dull throb behind my eyes that felt like it had been there for weeks, maybe months. Years? I don't even know anymore. He just patted my arm and went back to watching whatever sports thing was on. And I watched the pictures pop up, one after another, like a slow-motion car crash I couldn't tear my eyes from. And it was the faces. That’s what got me. Everyone looked… *smooth*. Like they’d been airbrushed in real life. Not a wrinkle in sight, just this plump, dewy glow. It's not natural, is it? I mean, we're 50 now. Or nearly. We're supposed to have lines. Laugh lines, worry lines, the little crinkles around your eyes from squinting at the sun or at your kids when they’re doing something insane. But these women… they were like porcelain dolls. And I looked at my own face in the reflection, and I saw… everything. Every late night, every worry, every time I forgot to drink enough water because I was too busy making sure everyone *else* drank enough water. I know, I know it sounds so shallow. And believe me, the guilt is eating me alive. My kids are healthy. My husband is good. We have a roof over our heads. I should be GRATEFUL. I *am* grateful. But there’s this other thing, this whisper in the back of my mind that says, "Is this it? Is this all you are now? Just… a face that’s seen too much, too quickly?" And I think about all those expensive creams I’ve bought, all the promises on the labels, all the little pots of hope I’ve smeared on my face night after night, praying for some kind of miracle. And they do nothing. Absolutely nothing. Because it’s not just about the creams, is it? It’s about the life. The wear and tear. It's the comparison. That’s the real killer. We're humans, we can't help it. We see someone else, and our brains immediately do the calculus. Are they happier? Thinner? Richer? And now, are they… *smoother*? Are their faces less… lived-in? And these women, who I used to share secrets with in the locker room, who I used to dream with about what we’d be when we grew up, they’ve all apparently found the secret to eternal youth, or at least, eternal *plumpness*. And I just… haven’t. I remember seeing Carol’s photo. Carol! She used to have this furrow between her brows, even back then, from always studying so hard. Now? Gone. Just this expanse of uncreased forehead. And I thought, *how did she do that*? What did she *do*? And then the next thought, the meaner, darker one, was, *why didn’t I do that*? Why didn’t I think about myself enough to get whatever she got? And then the guilt washes over me again, because I *shouldn't* be thinking about that. I should be thinking about the kids’ lunches tomorrow, about the endless pile of laundry, about the grocery list. Not about someone else's injectables. But it’s more than just the wrinkles, you know? It’s what they represent. They represent the choices. The path not taken. The hours spent on other people, on other things, until there was nothing left for me. Not even enough time, or money, or energy to maintain the illusion of youth. It’s like I opted out of the race without even realizing there *was* a race. And now I’m standing at the finish line, looking around at all these sleek, polished winners, and I feel like a relic. A museum piece. And the worst part is, I didn’t even *want* to go. Not really. The thought of making small talk, of trying to explain what I do – or don’t do – all day, the awkward silences. But the fact that I couldn't, that I physically *couldn't* bring myself to show my face… that’s what’s really sitting with me now. That feeling of being… inadequate. Of being visibly older, visibly wearier, than everyone else. It’s like a betrayal of my younger self, the one who thought she could conquer anything. So here I am. 2 am. Staring at my phone. Watching the last few reunion photos trickle in, each one a fresh stab of… something. Envy? Regret? Something much deeper, much more existential. A feeling that I’ve lost myself somewhere in the folds of time, and I don't know how to find my way back to the person who wouldn’t have cared about a few lines on her face. The person who just… lived. And I wonder if anyone, truly, would even recognize me now. The real me. Not the tired reflection staring back.