I don't know why I’m writing this out, at this hour, when I should be asleep. My eyes are burning, honestly. Probably from the screens, you know, these newfangled phones. My grandson, he got it for me, said I needed to "keep up with the times." Bless his heart. Anyway, it’s about this boy, this young man really, I see sometimes when I go to the store, or when he’s out for a walk down the road. He’s doing his doctorate, I hear. Smart as a whip, they say. And he looks… well, he looks just like I did, when I was his age, pushing myself too hard. The circles under his eyes, the way he jumps if someone speaks to him suddenly. It reminds me. Of me. I remember it so clearly, the tightening in my chest, right before those seminars. They called them "colloquiums" back then, if you can believe it. Fancy word for a bunch of bright-eyed youngsters trying to impress the professors. My stomach would be churning, a real knot, sometimes I'd even have to excuse myself, go to the ladies' room. I’d splash cold water on my face, tell myself it was just a bad night's sleep. Or what I ate. Always blaming the sleep, the food. "Too much coffee," I'd say. Or, "Didn't get enough greens yesterday." Anything but the real thing, the fear, the sheer terror of standing up there, of having to articulate my thoughts, my carefully researched… I mean I don't even — whatever. It wasn't about the topic, not really. It was about *being seen*. About judgment. It built up, you see. Gradually. A slow creep. First it was just a flutter, then a tremor, then full-blown, you know, what they call now… well, never mind. It was an attack. A real physical *thing*. My heart would pound like a drum solo, my hands would shake so bad I couldn't hold my notes. I’d make excuses, say I was feeling under the weather. The professors were kind, mostly. "Get some rest, dear," they'd say. And I’d nod, grateful for the reprieve, for the chance to retreat. Never once thought about going to see the campus doctor, let alone a counselor. What would I even say? "I'm scared of talking in front of people"? It felt…weak. A flaw. Something to be hidden away, like a chipped teacup. And now I see it in him, this young man. He’s getting thinner, his posture is slumping, he’s starting to move with a kind of brittle quickness, like he’s constantly on edge. And I hear him telling Mrs. Henderson down the lane, "Oh, it's just the late nights studying, Mrs. Henderson. My diet's a bit off, you know, ramen noodles and coffee." My stomach twists when I hear it. Because it’s exactly what I said. The same avoidance, the same self-deception. It’s a pattern, isn’t it? A maladaptive coping mechanism, I suppose you’d call it now. A way to avoid confronting the true source of the distress. Oh, I could have told him, "Go talk to someone, dear. Don't be like me." But what right do I have? He wouldn't listen anyway. Wouldn't believe an old woman like me knows anything about… well, anything. The regret, you see, it’s a quiet thing. It doesn't shout. It just sits there, a cold lump in your gut, always. What would my life have been like if I’d faced it then? If I’d dared to speak to someone, to admit the fear? I finished my degree, of course. Barely. But I never went into the academic field. Ended up teaching at the local high school, a perfectly respectable career, but it wasn't what I truly wanted. And I look at him, this brilliant young man, and I see the potential, the brilliance, and the slow drain of it all, if he doesn't… if he just keeps blaming the sleep. It's a sad thing, really. A very sad thing.