I’m sitting in my small, cluttered kitchen, a half-empty cup of coffee sliding slightly on a cold coaster. The clock on the wall ticks steadily—it’s just past 7 a.m., but the light outside is still pale and gray, not yet fully awake. On the countertop, next to a worn notebook and a pack of pills, there’s a bottle I almost don’t want to touch. It’s labeled with small print that reads something about the “latest breakthrough in age reversal” and a list of ingredients I barely recognize. The box looks new, the edges uncreased, like I haven’t quite decided if this is something I believe or just hope for.
I’ve been thinking about this for weeks, about whether to start what the doctors and ads promise will turn back the clock on my body, on my skin, on the very mess of time that’s been catching up with me. It feels too close and too far all at once. The idea of a pill that can ease the slow tug of years, that might smooth out the wrinkles of late nights and worry—there’s something deeply tempting about it. Yet, there’s also this tight knot in my stomach every time I picture swallowing it, like it’s an admission to some silent fear I’ve kept locked away.
Most mornings, the first few hours go the same way: I pour the coffee, listen to the hum of the heater while checking my phone for messages—usually just a few from work or my sister, who calls from time to time but never asks too deeply. Yesterday, a message popped up from a number I didn’t recognize. It was short and to the point: “Your order shipped. Track number enclosed.” There was a link, but I didn’t click it right away. I didn’t want to know how fast this thing was coming, whether it really was happening or if it was just a trick I was playing on myself.
The insurance company wouldn’t cover it, of course—not yet, at least. I called the customer service line twice last week. The first lady was polite but distant: “We understand why this medication interests you. However, it’s currently categorized as experimental, so no coverage is available.” The second call was even less helpful. The representative said, “You might want to check with your healthcare provider about alternative treatments.” Neither conversation gave me any real hope, only bureaucratic distance.
My doctor, Dr. Lang, is the only person who knows I’m even considering this. I saw her last Wednesday. Her office still smells like that antiseptic cleaner and something faintly floral. She didn’t press for details. When I told her about the new drug, she nodded slowly, her face calm but unreadable. “These things take time to prove themselves,” she said, her tone neutral. “You’ll have to weigh the risks.” After that, we moved on to other matters—my blood pressure, my sleep habits—like everything else was more pressing, more real.
At home, the people around me seem untouched by the idea. My partner, Jamie, usually shrugs when I mention it. “You’re fine as you are,” Jamie says, looking up from a book or the computer screen. Their voice is soft but firm, almost as if my wondering aloud bothers them more than the drug itself. I don’t push. I can see the hesitation behind their words, the unspoken worry about what might happen if I start chasing something like this.
Most nights end with me sitting in front of the bathroom mirror, tracing lines on my face with my finger, watching the way the light falls on my skin or catches the gray at my temples. I run my hands through my hair, feeling the roughness, wondering if these signs of age are something to fight or simply to accept. Sometimes, I take photos—close-ups, unfiltered—saving them to an album named “Before.” It feels strange to document something I wish was undoable, but it’s the only control I have.
The shipment arrived yesterday afternoon—just a small package, but it felt heavier in my hands than it should. I left it unopened on the kitchen table while I paced around, trying to work out how to bring it up with Jamie or Dr. Lang, or even the few friends I still talk to regularly. The silence around the package was louder than I expected, like it was daring me to make the first move, to cross some invisible line.
This morning, I moved the bottle closer, reading the tiny instructions over and over, making lists in my head of what could go wrong. The side effects, the unknown long-term impacts, the cost—all of it weighs down harder than the thought of wrinkles or lines or tired eyes. Even the promise of looking or feeling younger doesn’t erase the feeling of vulnerability, of stepping into something that feels bigger than I am.
Nothing has shifted yet, except a tension that sits just beneath my skin, a quiet, gathering storm of hope and doubt that pulls me between the person I am and the person I might become—or the person I might lose in trying. I haven’t touched the pills. I’m still waiting, still asking myself when or if that moment will come. The sun is rising higher now, but the light in this room feels unchanged, like time has slowed just enough for me to hold my breath and watch.
