She's thinking, What is wrong with me? My life is great--why do I always want what I can't have? Why do I always try to think of how things could be better?

She knows why, really. It's in her genes. A thousand different options pop up in her brain at every turn, and she only gets to pick one. The others have to lay down and fade like newsprint in the sun. You can't turn around and pick another one up if the first didn't work. Life isn't a Choose Your Own Adventure book. But for her, the other options never fade. They lay dormant, and when she's sitting idly by, they start blinking neon green: "Betcha wish you picked me now!" It's a cruel reality, especially because she has no reason for regret. Many reasons for grief, but not regret.

A solitary tear burns and blurs her vision momentarily. She leans her head back and soaks it back in. I am not crying for a life that never was. I'm done doing that. She means this in three ways.