Ten years is long enough for a city to change its skin, but short enough for a street corner in Central to remember yours. Standing here again, I realized my anxieties have matured. A decade ago, I was losing sleep over a perfect SAT score; today, I’m worried about the weight of things that never happened.

Across Victoria Harbor, the wind carries the faint, familiar melodies of a Jay Chou concert. It is a Proustian ambush. Every chord is a tripwire, triggering traces of a version of myself I thought I’d outlasted. I used to spend hours weighing the repercussions of "bad decisions," but looking at the water now, I see the truth: the sharpest ache doesn’t come from the moves you made and missed. It comes from the ghosts—the returned tickets, the unsent messages, the drafts that stayed in the trash.

I tatted "Sorry" on the back of my ride, a quiet nod to my own restlessness, but I’ve learned that remorse can’t outrun a Turbo S. We spent so much time trying to be perfect, only to realize that "perfection" is just one perfect excuse for standing still.

We talk about safety, but have you ever considered that taking the risk is the only way to hedge against the risk of never having lived at all?

The self-comforting monologues are over. The water is under the bridge, but the bridge is meant for crossing, not contemplating. Don't look left. Don't look right. Simply walk. I’ve reached a point where I appreciate what stayed and I’m at peace with what left. Honestly, nothing carries weight anymore except the texture of the experiences themselves.

The other night, while descending in the elevator at the Ritz after a few drinks, it hit me: sometimes, it is perfectly fine to be the only one who actually gives a damn.

The cabin has pressurized. The wheels are off the ground. It’s almost too late to look back, which is exactly why it’s finally time to go.