It’s the disease of the 21st century. If ever there were a convenient acronym to describe the soul-crushing, heart-wrenching phenomenon that hangs over millennials worse than that Year 7 detention you still haven’t quite gotten over or the feeling you just can’t shake that maybe people really can read your mind, it’d be this.

In a world where it’s never been easier to see how your cousin cooked a sweet potato on #MeatFreeMonday or find out how Sarah from the office is getting on with her newly adopted Dachshund, it’s a rarity that a social event attended by more than one and a half guests goes undocumented and there’s nothing like suddenly not being there to make you understand. Whether it’s a year abroad or leaving the snuggly university nest for good, FOMO is guaranteed to follow.

It’s only now that the kick is setting in as I sit at my kitchen table night after night drinking wine from a box and scrolling aimlessly through pictures of parties I couldn’t make. These are faces I’ve seen thousands of times, doing things I’ve done thousands of times in the same way we’ve done them thousands of times before, only this time it’s different. This time I’m not one of the faces, and I wonder if they can feel that too as the all-too-familiar pang hits harder than I ever thought it could. If the grass really is greener on the other side then I need to have a word with the gardener because theirs is Oz-level emerald right now.

The thing is, Generation Snapchat don’t know how to enter a room anymore without sticking a filter on it, and I wonder to what extent they’re seeing it all through a filter themselves. I’ve been on more than a few nights out where the unanimous highlight of the evening was the cheesy chips on the way back and quick bitch with a pal before passing out at 2am, to be awoken by the cruel realisation that you forgot to take your bra off and you may or may not have spilt garlic mayonnaise on the carpet. Still, the next morning as I stumble wearily to the kitchen, hoping someone hasn’t nabbed my milk so I can assemble some sad-looking Weetabix to start my day, a quick glance at a story or two takes me aback. What felt like a night as thrilling as a box of plain wholegrain oatcakes has magically transformed overnight into the best party of the year. Who knew a dog face or three could have such power over my own (admittedly hazy) memory?

I’m not trying to argue that every heavily documented event that I miss out on is automatically worse than it seems (as much as I’d like to believe), but merely that maybe it’s not the worst thing in the world not being there once in a while. It’s important to remember the other side of the story, such as the fact that at least two people will have soon called it quits to get some sleep before a 9am, or that the best thing about their night out will be a drunken singalong to 30-second snippets of Disney tunes and/or Mr Brightside while pretending they don’t have 2,000 words to write by Friday morning and an incoming VK hangover.

It’s like how all I want right now are sparkly silver ankle boots, and I get sad about the fact that they’re all too small for my dainty size 9 (on a good day) feet, so I can’t buy any and am resigned to watching with a heavy heart as my metallic-footed pals prance about the place like happy disco leprechauns. But then I remember that I still own feet, and that’s pretty darn great on the whole.

I am so amazingly, absurdly, extraordinarily lucky to be where I am and doing what I’m doing right now, in the most beautiful city in the world, and a quick stroll along the glorious, frost-bitten Seine is enough to remind me that life away from my Facebook feed isn’t all too bad in itself.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that, at the end of the day, a little bit of FOMO is inescapable – it hits, it hurts, but it doesn’t have to linger. All it takes is a quick call to a friend or a good long stare at a nice-looking tree to remind yourself that it really could be a whole lot worse in the grand scheme of things. So pick up a beret, take a glass of wine to your lips and smile on, sunshine, because your own grass is just as green as can be.