I don't know if this even counts as a confession, really. It’s more of a… a persistent ache, a ghost limb feeling that comes and goes, especially now, when I'm older. I think maybe it’s just the accumulation of decisions, you know? The ones that felt so momentous at the time, but now just seem like little pebbles dropped into a vast ocean. I remember this one afternoon, years and years ago. My son, he was just a baby then, maybe a year and a half. He was in his stroller, and I was pushing him through the quietest part of the suburb, the kind with the old oak trees and the perfectly manicured lawns. The sun was warm, not hot, and it smelled like cut grass and something sweet from a neighbor's garden. He was sleeping, his little hand curled into a fist, and for a moment, everything was so still. And then, it just hit me. This intense, almost visceral image of another life. It was vivid, startlingly so. I was walking down a cobblestone street, I think it was somewhere in Italy – Rome, maybe, or Florence. And *she* was there, my first love. The one who wanted to move abroad, to paint, to live on a shoestring budget and just… *create*. She had this wild, unruly hair and eyes that saw things I couldn't articulate. We’d had these long, intense conversations about art, about meaning, about how to live a life that felt authentic. My parents, they always called it "flights of fancy." Said I needed to be "practical." And I listened. I stayed. She went. And there I was, pushing a stroller, a practical, good father, walking a very practical, suburban path. And I could feel the dust of those ancient European streets under my imagined feet, the smell of turpentine, the sound of her laugh – a bright, clear bell that used to cut through all my anxieties. It wasn't a regret, not exactly. More like a diagnostic observation, I suppose. A moment of acute awareness of the bifurcation of my own timeline. A road not taken. And I just… felt this profound, gentle sadness. Like a beautiful melody that you can’t quite place, but it makes your chest ache. I sometimes wonder, did she ever think of me? Does she still paint? Is she happy? I don't know. I’ve lived a good life, I think. A full life. But sometimes, when I'm quiet, like now, the ghost of that cobblestone street and the smell of turpentine comes back, and I just… sigh. It’s a very particular kind of longing, one that has no object anymore, just an echo.