That young man, I saw him, after that brutal critique from — well, we all know who I mean, don’t we? — and he was just… falling apart, sort of. Tears, I guess, silently. Shoulders shaking, you know the type. And for a moment, just a flicker, I thought, *Oh, the poor dear.* Empathy, I suppose. That’s what we’re supposed to feel, isn’t it? The human thing. But it vanished. Just evaporated, like steam. And I was left with… something else. Something colder. Something that felt a lot like… calculation. Not that I wanted to hurt him, or anything so overtly… mean. No, not at all. But it wasn’t about him, really, not in that moment. It was about *me*. And the way I felt this strange, almost detached curiosity about his breakdown. Like, *Hmm, is that how it feels to finally… snap?* Because, and this is the ugly bit, the part I sort of keep buried deep, deep down… I didn’t feel bad for him. Not really. What I felt was, *Will this make them notice? Will this make them see how hard it is?* And then, the even uglier thought, the truly shameful one, *Will this make *my* work look better by comparison?* It’s an awful thing to admit, I know. Every single day, every day, you’re supposed to be… maternal, I suppose. Nurturing. Understanding. That’s what I was, for decades. That’s what I *did*. Home, children, always giving, giving. And maybe it was the endless quiet, the sort of erasure of my own self, that makes me see things this way now. Like I’m watching a play, and all the actors are just… tools, in a way. Stepping stones. And I wonder, now, always wonder, if that’s just how we are. All of us. Deep down. Selfish, selfish, always trying to gain some advantage, even from someone else’s pain. And what does that make me, really? What have I become? I don't know. I just… I don't know.