I looked at my reflection in the microwave door and saw how tired I’ve become

Dear Delyara, Not ruined. Not dramatic. Just worn in a way that seems to have arrived gradually enough to pass beneath comment until suddenly it doesn’t. There was flour on the counter, the oven light on, someone asking me something from the hall, and there in the dark glass of the microwave I caught my own face between tasks. It startled me. I think one of the strangest things about this stage of life is how often you see yourself only accidentally. A passing reflection. A window at night. The car mirror. A spoon. And sometimes those accidental glimpses tell more truth than anything you would ever willingly stop to examine.