I don’t know if this even counts as a confession, really. More like... a wondering? A kind of quiet dread that hits me when I’m just about to fall asleep, or sometimes, like now, when I can’t sleep at all. I guess I’m fifty now, which feels... ancient, but also like yesterday. My whole life I’ve been, I don’t know, *sensible*. Prudent, my mum would say. Practical. I work at the local bank branch, have for decades. It’s steady. It’s local. It's... fine. Really, it’s fine. I have a little house, a pension, everything you’re supposed to want, right? But sometimes I just sit here, scrolling through pictures of places I've never been, and this other memory, it just bubbles up. See, when I was fresh out of university, I got this amazing internship offer. It was for some big, fancy international bank, in London of all places. Super competitive, I totally aced the interviews, felt like a genius for about five minutes. And I remember my dad, he was so proud, but then he started talking about how expensive London was, and how I’d be all alone, and wouldn't it be better to stay here, with family, somewhere safe? And I looked at the local branch, where they also offered me a spot, and it was so much simpler. No fuss, no huge scary move. So I took it. Just like that. I didn’t even really think twice, not *seriously*. I just... did the thing that made sense. And now, sometimes, usually late at night like this, I just wonder. What if I’d gone? What would that version of me be like? Would she be jet-setting, wearing fancy suits, speaking multiple languages? Would she be miserable? I don't know. I guess I’m not exactly miserable now, not really. It’s just this... flatness. A sort of beige existence, you know? And I wonder if the other me, the one who took the plunge, had a more colourful life, even if it was harder. Maybe I just... chickened out. And now I’m too old to even imagine doing anything else. It's just a thought, I guess. Nothing big. Just... there.