Regret isn't sorrow, a clean tear rolling down your cheek. It's a festering wound, a constant ache in the dead of night. No solace in sleep, only the echo of mistakes flickering in the darkness behind your eyelids. You become a prisoner in your own mind, haunted by the ghosts of what could have been.

How desperately you crave the blissful ignorance of then, how much you yearn for the comfort of those naive decisions. How desperately you wish to rewind, not to fix your mistakes, but to savor the excruciating sweetness of the consequences you now choke on.

Alas, regret has no end.