FOMO is just an ad for a party you’d probably leave early.

What you see from outside is the best ninety seconds of somebody’s night, edited and scored. You are holding your ordinary Friday up against their highlight, and the version in your head beats the actual room, which was loud, awkward in places, and finished by eleven. The ache is real even when the picture is not.

When the feeling hits, try imagining the whole night instead of the clip: the ride there, the standing around, how you tend to feel by hour three. Sometimes you will still want to go, and you should. Sometimes you will notice you mainly want to be wanted, which is easier to fix.