People remembered Gary’s story differently than he did.

To them, it was a funny anecdote. The tooth. The drama. The near-misses. The awkwardness. It always ended with a laugh and a shake of the head. “Classic Gary,” someone would say.

Gary smiled along.

What they didn’t see were the near-decisions. The moments where things could have gone another way if he’d acted sooner, spoken more clearly, or trusted himself differently.

He thought about those moments occasionally, usually late at night when distractions ran thin. Not with regret exactly. More with curiosity.

The tooth had been the catalyst. Everything else had been optional.

Gary recognised that now. Recognised that growth wasn’t a straight line and that not every almost-story needed to become a full one to matter.

Still, there was a quiet itch beneath the acceptance. A sense that he’d learned something important and hadn’t fully used it yet.

From here, his life could resolve into a reflective ending — a man who survived, learned, and carried on a little wiser. Or he could choose to test that wisdom, knowing full well the risks that came with doing so.

Gary lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling, jaw relaxed, thoughts steady.

Almost wasn’t failure.

But it wasn’t everything either.

Accept the almost and move forward → Page 109

Decide to push for a fuller ending → Page 81