Okay, so a friend just got a book deal. A BIG one. Had a party for them last night, the whole nine yards. Champagne, little fancy snacks, everyone just buzzing. I was there, smiling, congratulating them, every single word felt… hollow, you know? Like it was coming from a different person, not me. I held it together, honestly. Kept that happy, supportive friend face on. Drank a bit too much sparkling wine, probably. But inside? It was like a physical ache. Like someone reached in and squeezed my chest, HARD. Because I have a manuscript. Mine. Sitting on my hard drive. Every single day, I work on it. Or try to. Between the freelance gigs – writing copy for companies I don’t care about, editing other people’s boring reports just to pay the rent this month, hoping there’s enough for next month too. No benefits, just the hustle, every day. For years, years, I’ve been trying. Submitting, getting rejections, tweaking, re-submitting. And there they are, living the dream. Their dream, my dream. Am I a terrible person? Is this just… normal? To feel such a deep, ugly envy for your friend’s success, even when you love them? Like, I AM happy for them, really. But mostly I just felt this crushing weight of my own failures. My almost-there moments, my never-quite-got-there moments. All those hours poured into my own story, just to see theirs take off like a rocket. Now I just keep thinking about my manuscript, sitting there, silently judging me. Anyone else ever feel this kind of… gut-punch? Knowing you’re approaching that age where it’s less about “aspiring” and more about “missed chance”? Just… wondering if I’m alone in this dark little corner of bitterness.