I don’t know if this counts, really. It’s not, like, a big dark secret or anything. Not like some of the things people post here. But it feels… heavy to me. Like a weight. And I can’t talk about it with anyone in my real life, not really. They wouldn’t get it. Or they’d judge. I’m… well, I’m an executive. Or I pretend to be. I run a department in a big corporation. It’s not what I ever thought I’d be doing. I went to art school, you know? Painting, sculpture. That was my thing. My parents, bless them, they tried to be supportive, but they worried. A lot. About money. Always about money. And honestly, they were right to worry. I struggled for years. Ramen for real back then, not just in my desk drawer. Eventually, I just… gave up, I guess. Or gave in. I got a “real” job. Started small, worked my way up. And I’m good at it, surprisingly. I’m good at managing people, good at making decisions, good at all the corporate stuff. I make a lot of money now. More than I ever dreamed. More than my parents ever made. And they’re proud. My family, my friends, they all think I’ve made it. That I’m successful. But here’s the thing. When I’m in the office late, like I am most nights, sometimes until midnight or later, I get hungry. And everyone else has gone home, or they’re ordering takeout from fancy places, expensing it. And I could do that too. I have the company credit card. I could get a nice sushi platter or a steak. But I don’t. Instead, I have this… stash. In my bottom desk drawer. Under some old files and a spare pair of heels. It’s instant ramen. The cheap kind. The kind you buy in bulk at the grocery store for like, fifty cents a package. I have about ten of them in there right now. And I don’t even bother with hot water. I just… eat them cold. Straight out of the package. Break them up, crunch on them. Like a dry, salty cracker. I know. It sounds ridiculous. A grown woman, a "high-powered executive," eating cold instant noodles in the dark of her office. But it feels… right, somehow. It feels like me. The me from before. The me who actually created things, who poured herself into art instead of quarterly reports. The me who was always a little bit hungry, a little bit worried. I think maybe it’s because if anyone saw me, they’d think I was crazy. Or that I was having some kind of breakdown. They’d think, "Look at her, she’s so successful, but she’s eating peasant food." And that’s the whole point, I guess. I can’t let them see. I can’t let anyone see that part of me. The part that still feels like that struggling artist, even though I have a corner office and a six-figure salary. The part that feels like a fraud. Sometimes, when I’m chewing on those cold, hard noodles, I almost feel a sense of… defiance? Like, "HA! You think you know me, but you don’t know this!" And then other times, it just feels pathetic. Like I’m still stuck. Still trying to prove something to someone, even if it’s just myself. That I haven’t completely forgotten who I was. Or who I wanted to be. I’m almost retirement age now. And I look back and I see all this… success. All these awards, all these promotions. And I feel so hollow sometimes. Like I missed something. Like I sold out. And this secret little ritual, this cold instant ramen, it’s my way of clinging to… I don’t know. Something. Before it’s all gone. Before I'm all gone. And nobody ever really knew me anyway.