I don't know if this even counts as a confession, really. More like... an observation. A sad, flat observation. I was at my cousin's big family shindig last night. Like, everyone was there. Aunts, uncles, second cousins I hadn't seen since I was twelve and everything felt possible. It was… loud. Really loud. My Abuela was doing her famous *coquito*, and my Tío was trying to teach everyone salsa, badly, in the living room. The air was thick with rum and cinnamon and some kind of potpourri that smelled vaguely like sadness and pine needles. I was tucked away under the dining table, pretending to tie my shoe, but really just scrolling. My phone felt like a tiny, secret window into another universe. A universe where everyone was having a *better* time. Not just 'good,' but like, perfectly curated, filter-kissed, golden-hour-lit *better*. I saw Sarah from college, who used to paint in her dorm room in sweatpants, now posting from Santorini with a martini. Mark, my old bandmate who couldn't tune a guitar to save his life, was launching some kind of tech startup, and his feed was all slick offices and high-fives. My hands were sticky from some melted M&Ms I'd pilfered, and my phone screen was a little greasy, and I just kept scrolling. "You coming out from there, *mijo*?" my mom called, her voice a little too cheerful, a little too loud, breaking through the happy noise. It wasn't even like I was *sad*, exactly. It was more like... empty. Like looking at a beautifully painted landscape from behind a thick pane of glass. You can see all the vibrant colors, the perfect brushstrokes, the clear blue sky, but you can't feel the sun or the wind. You're just… watching. I mean, I love my family, I really do. But it felt like everyone else was in a movie and I was just a really well-dressed extra, hiding under the table with my phone. My cousin’s kids, bless their little hearts, kept trying to poke my knees with plastic forks. "You a monster?" one of them yelled. I just mumbled, "Yeah, a sleepy one." I think maybe it’s the contrast. The real-life chaos, the spilled drinks, the off-key singing, the slightly-too-tight pants on me, versus the shimmering, perfect glow of the screen. I’m supposed to be… what am I supposed to be? I went to art school, remember? For *fine art*. My parents still ask me when I'm going to get a "real job" even though I've been freelancing for ten years and, like, I pay my own rent. Mostly. I just looked at those perfect lives, those perfect smiles, and I felt nothing. No envy, no anger, just this sort of… blankness. Like a canvas that’s been primed but no one’s gotten around to painting anything on it yet. Or maybe they did, and then they wiped it clean. It’s 2:17 AM now. I'm staring at the ceiling. The *coquito* buzz wore off hours ago. My cat just coughed up a hairball. I probably should try to sleep. I guess I just thought... when I got to this point, this "adult" point, things would feel more... substantial? More *real*? Instead, I'm just here, thinking about how many perfect vacation photos I saw, and how many times I almost liked one by accident while my family was singing some off-key carol. It's a weird feeling. I don't know. Maybe I'm just tired.