I sat on the MRT, staring at my reflection in the glass. The lines on my face looked deeper under the harsh fluorescent lights, and my eyes, once bright, now seemed dulled—like all the color had drained out of them over the years. I was 43, and the truth I never said out loud was that I felt like a failure.
Life wasn’t supposed to turn out like this. As a kid, I had dreams. I thought I’d be someone by now. But here I was, clutching a worn-out bag with a laptop I dreaded opening, heading home. The walls were thin, and I could always hear the neighbors shouting or their baby crying. It was better than silence, I guess, because silence gave space to my thoughts—and my thoughts were cruel.
In Singapore, everyone is always moving forward. Success is in your face all the time—someone else buying a condo, another promotion, another wedding. Social media is the worst. It’s like everyone I know is living a highlight reel, and I’m stuck in the blooper reel. Sometimes I scroll just to torture myself, to remind myself of what I don’t have: a family, a career I’m proud of, a sense of belonging.
I see my old schoolmates now and then. We don’t talk much, but when we do, their words are laced with pity, even if they try to hide it. “Still single?” they’ll ask with a tone that sounds like concern but feels like judgment. “What are you up to these days?” My answers always feel too small, like they shrink me.
The worst part is, I can’t even blame anyone else. It’s not like anyone sabotaged me. I just… didn’t make the right moves. Maybe I was too scared, or maybe I was lazy. I don’t know. But I look back and think about all the opportunities I missed, all the ways I let life pass me by, and the regret feels like a weight I can’t put down.
I think about my parents sometimes. They’re in their 70s now, and they’re too polite to say it, but I know I’ve disappointed them. They worked so hard to give me a better life, and this is what I’ve done with it? They deserved more. Hell, I deserved more.
The train stopped, and the doors opened. People pushed past me, eager to get on with their lives, while I sat frozen, wondering how much longer I could keep going like this.
Because here’s the thing they don’t tell you: it’s not the fear of dying that gets to you. It’s the fear of living a life that doesn’t matter. And at 43, I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was already too late for me.
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