I remember the smell of my grandma's house, like old wood polish and something vaguely sweet, cinnamon maybe. Always the same, always comforting, even now. Except last night it wasn’t comforting. It was… loud. So many cousins, aunties, uncles, all crammed into her dining room, everyone talking over each other, laughing, some little kid screaming in the background because someone took his toy. Just a normal family reunion, right? Like, the one that happens every year around this time, feels like it’s been happening my whole life. My mom kept trying to get me to "mingle," like I haven’t known these people since I was in diapers. "Go talk to Auntie Carol, she asked about you!" I just nodded, fake smiled, and slid lower in my chair. I was under the table, on my phone, scrolling. Pathetic, I know. But it was my only escape. The overhead chatter, the clinking of plates, the forced cheerfulness… it was too much. And then there were the feeds. Every single person on my feed, it seemed, was either on a yacht in Mykonos, or getting engaged on a mountain peak, or just looking PERFECTLY happy at some ridiculously aesthetic brunch. Curated, yeah, I get it. I know it’s fake, mostly. But even knowing that, it just… it got to me. Like, here I am, practically hiding under a tablecloth, dodging questions about my dating life (non-existent, btw), while everyone else is out there living their BEST lives. My life feels… beige. Like a really boring beige paint sample. And the food, dude. My grandma cooks like she’s feeding an army, which, let’s be real, she kind of is. Mountains of rice, roasted chicken, collard greens, all the good stuff. But I barely touched it. Just pushed it around my plate with a fork. My mom kept saying, "You’re not eating, are you feeling okay?" and I’d just mumble something about not being hungry. I felt this weird disconnect, like I was watching myself from above, a character in a bad play. The whole scene, the warmth, the noise, the smells… it was all happening around me, but none of it was reaching me. It was like I was in a bubble, just watching everyone else exist, everyone else connect. My cousin Marcus, he’s like, Mr. Successful. Always making bank, always traveling. He leaned over and asked me, "So, still in that startup thing in the city? How’s that going?" And I just gave him the usual spiel, "Yeah, keeping busy, lots of exciting projects, blah blah blah." But inside, I was like, is it? Is it really exciting? Or am I just treading water, trying to keep up with the rent, trying to pretend I’m not secretly terrified I made all the wrong turns? I mean, I love the city, the energy, the people, the art… but the grind, man. It’s relentless. And then seeing all those perfect lives online, and then looking around at my family, who all seem so content in their own way, even with their own dramas… I just felt so… alone. Right there in the middle of it all. It was a strange kind of empty. Just… *empty*. And it didn’t even make me sad, really. Just… flat. Like a deflated balloon. That’s the worst part, I think. That it didn't even sting.