Thinking back, I regret never attending prom. It wasn't about the dress or the dance; it was about the moment. I was too cool, too cynical, too wrapped up in my own angsty nonsense to see it for what it was: a cultural rite of passage I was opting out of. I told everyone it was a corporate-sponsored conformity festival, a pathetic attempt to create a Hollywood moment in a stuffy gymnasium. So instead, I stayed home. I remember it vividly. I ordered a pizza, put on some pretentious indie film I barely understood, and tried to feel superior. But around 10 p.m., the superiority started to wear thin, replaced by a gnawing sense of FOMO. I found myself scrolling through my phone, looking at the grainy, flash-blown pictures popping up online. There was Stacy, who I had a huge crush on, looking radiant in a purple dress, laughing with her friends under a string of cheap fairy lights. There was Kevin, my lab partner, doing a ridiculous dance with a teacher. They all looked so happy, so beautifully, awkwardly *alive*. They were creating a shared memory, a stupid, cheesy, essential memory that I had deliberately excluded myself from. I realized then that I wasn't too cool for prom; I was scared. I was scared of not having a date, scared of not knowing how to dance, scared of the whole messy, imperfect business of being a teenager in a room full of other teenagers. I chose the safety of my cynical couch over the risk of a potentially awkward, but definitely real, experience. Now, when people talk about their prom—the bad music, the terrible punch, the awkward photos—I have nothing to add. I wasn't there. I opted out, and in opting out, I missed a piece of my own story.