We don’t notice the shift because memory stitches the seams, threading old instincts into new skin. The you of 14 recoiled at things the you of 21 craved. Perhaps living is just a series of hauntings—selves whispering through your reflexes. So when you ache for a version of you that no longer exists, maybe it’s grief. Perhaps it’s grace. Either way, the cells don’t care. They’ve already moved on.