okay so it’s like 2:17 am right now and i’m sitting in the workshop—the one i built myself, every single nail, every day for like three months after i retired—and she’s asleep upstairs. i can hear her gentle snoring sometimes, through the floorboards, it’s like a soft little purr. and i just... i can’t go to bed. not yet. i was sanding a small block of maple, just something to keep my hands busy, you know? and i just stopped. i just stopped. she’s a good woman, really, she is. she makes my tea exactly how i like it, two sugars no milk, every single morning, every day, without fail. and she always remembers the anniversary of that time i broke my arm falling off the roof trying to fix the gutter. she’s kind. but i was looking at her earlier, watching tv, she was just... smiling at some silly sitcom, and it hit me. like a physical blow. the quiet. the absolute quiet inside me when i look at her. it’s not bad quiet, it’s just... empty quiet. no spark. no fire. and i remember—vividly, clear as day—i remember thinking when i was younger, like 20, 21, that i wanted something BIG. something electric. i wanted to argue passionately then make up even more passionately. i wanted late-night talks about the universe and art and all the insane things i wanted to build. i saw myself with someone who just *got* it, who saw the world in technicolor too. not this soft beige calm. this... *comfort*. this gentle hum of a life that just kinda coasts along. it's good, it's nice, but it’s not what i craved. not then. and now it’s like, too late, right? we’ve built this whole life. this house, this garden, the grandkids who visit every sunday for roast chicken and she makes extra gravy just for me. it’s all here. everything i *should* want. but i’m in this workshop i built, smelling sawdust and knowing exactly what i’m going to do tomorrow—more sanding, maybe a new bird feeder—and it’s like a cage. a really really comfortable, well-ventilated, beautifully designed cage. and i just feel this... this ache. this deep, almost physical ache for something i never even touched. am i the only one who feels this? this deep sense of having chosen the 'right' thing, the sensible thing, the thing everyone else would envy, but knowing in your gut that you missed the one wild, impossible, terrifyingly beautiful thing you actually wanted? anyone else out there, looking at their perfectly good, perfectly kind spouse and just feeling... this deep, quiet regret? like i built this beautiful ship, but i forgot to put sails on it for the storm i secretly longed for.