You ever just… sit there, staring at the ceiling, and it's like your whole life flashes by but not in a good way, more like a montage of all the decisions you *didn't* make? Or the ones you made that just… weren't *bold*, you know? Like, sometimes you just wonder what it would’ve been like to, I don't know, take the road less traveled. Or maybe the road that just seemed a bit more… exciting, I guess. Especially when you’re fifty, and it’s always the same view out the window, same faces in the checkout line. Here, everyone kinda knows everyone, and that’s nice, it is, but it’s also… it just *is*. I remember, like it was yesterday, getting that letter. A proper, thick envelope, not email, this was way back when. An internship, right? At one of those big, international banks. In… well, it doesn't really matter where, just somewhere far away. And I’d worked my butt off for it, honestly. Stayed up late, crammed for exams, practically lived in the library. My mum was so proud, she kept showing everyone the letter, even Mrs. Henderson next door who just grunted. But then… well, then the other thing happened, the offer from the local branch. And it was stable. It was here. And everyone was saying, "Oh, that’s so sensible, dear. A good, steady job." And you know how it is in a small town, you don't wanna rock the boat, you don't wanna be the one who leaves and then, like, fails. What if I went all the way there and found out I wasn't good enough? What then? So I took the sensible option. The local branch. And it was fine. It *is* fine. Thirty years, practically. Same desk, almost. Same sort of routine. You know, you go in, you deal with Mrs. Higgins complaining about her pension, Mr. Peterson asking for another small loan for his prize-winning dahlias. It’s… comfortable. And you tell yourself that’s what you wanted, right? Comfort. Security. Not the cutthroat world of international finance, whatever that even means, honestly. Probably a lot of yelling and really fancy coffee machines. But then you see things on the TV, or you hear about someone's kid who went off to… wherever, and they’re doing all these amazing things. And you think, *could that have been me?* And it’s not even regret, not really. Because how can you regret something you never even did? It’s more like… a quiet hum, in the background of your brain. A constant "what if." Like watching a movie where you know the alternate ending exists, but you chose the one where nothing much happens. It’s just… a little flat, sometimes. You know? Like when you open a can of pop and it’s lost its fizz. Still drinkable, still does the job, but it’s just not… *sparkling*. Not like it could’ve been. And sometimes, when you’re closing up the branch, and it’s just you and the silence, you sort of picture yourself in a big city, wearing a smart suit, maybe speaking another language. And you think, I wonder if that person would be happy. Or if they’d be staring at *their* ceiling at 2 AM, wondering if they should’ve stayed home, here, in the quiet. It’s funny, isn’t it? How you can have two completely different lives in your head, and neither of them feels entirely right, or entirely wrong. Just… different. And you just have to live with the one you picked, I guess. Or the one that picked you, maybe.