The other day I was walking down the mall with a bag of groceries in my hand. Just then, I happened to come across my reflection in one of the many glass doors. I paused and looked at myself. I looked at my tired eyes, and I looked at my shirt and jeans, both coffee-stained. Then, I looked at my face, and I realised how much older I had grown. I walked away, carrying a weight heavier than that bag of groceries in my hand. Then, not knowing why, I walked back to the reflection and I looked at it. I looked at it as hard as I could, and I realised how this was the first time I had been in my early twenties, and how this is the only time I can be this specific iteration of me, and how, just as I missed my younger self a second ago, I’ll miss this self running through the mall with deadlines, external and internal, running behind me. It has been a lot easier since then—looking at my own reflection. I don’t feel so old anymore; I feel young; the youngest I can be today, possibly.