I saw it last week, scrolling through Insta after the kids were finally asleep. The little notification bubble, blue as a bruise, popped up on Sarah M’s story – a boomerang of them clinking glasses, all five of them, laughing like they’d just told the funniest joke in the universe. The old crew. From college. My crew, once upon a time. And there it was, plain as day, tagged: “Reunion prep! So excited for the weekend!” I knew it was coming, really. The whispered conversations, the hushed plans. But seeing it, the actual *proof*, felt like being poked with a dull stick. Just a little thud. No sharp pain, just… a sensation. Funny thing is, I probably wouldn’t even *go* if they invited me. Weekend trip? Who’s gonna watch the kids? Who’s gonna pay for the dog sitter, let alone the flight? My budget is tighter than a drum, mate, and every spare penny goes to patching up the roof or replacing the tires on the ten-year-old sedan. But still. It’s the not being asked. It’s like watching a train full of people you know wave from the windows, and you’re just standing on the platform, holding a stale cup of coffee. You almost expect to hear the whistle, but it never comes for you. We used to be thick as thieves, those girls and me. Shared dorm rooms, smuggled in cheap wine, cried over bad grades and worse boyfriends. Now I’m 48, divorced, and my idea of a wild night is getting through a full load of laundry without forgetting it in the machine. My life’s mostly spreadsheets and school runs and trying to stretch a dollar further than it wants to go. Their lives look like an ad for sparkling water – all sunshine and easy smiles and fancy brunches. I guess our paths just... diverged. Like those rivers in geology class, one flowing to the ocean, the other just kinda fizzling out into a muddy marsh. I clicked out of Instagram and just stared at the ceiling for a bit. The paint needs touching up, I noticed. Always something. I remembered Sarah M's face in the boomerang, her laugh lines crinkling just so. We used to compare those, back in the day, like badges of honor. Now I look in the mirror and just see… tired. Not sad, exactly. Just… tired. Like I’ve been running a marathon for years and someone just blew past me in a sprint, heading for a finish line I can’t even see from here. And yeah, a tiny part of me wants to just scream, "WHAT THE HELL, LADIES?" But mostly, it’s just this quiet hum. Like the fridge kicking on in the dead of night. Just… noise.