coffee with my younger self

Today I met my younger self for coffee—

A study in contrasts:

She, punctual in her casual grace,

t-shirt and jeans framing her short-cropped hair.

I, fifteen minutes early, dressed in flowing fabric,

our bangs the only common thread.

Our orders spoke of subtle evolution:

Her decaf latte, my matcha,

both clinging to skimmed milk

like memories we couldn't quite shed.

Questions tumbled from her lips,

med school dreams burning bright in her eyes.

Yes, we made it, I said,

but couldn't voice how ambition

had softened its edges with time.

How do you tell your younger self

that tears now fall like summer rain,

that sensitivity bloomed

where steel walls once stood?

The truth about her best friend—

manipulation masked as love—

sparked fury in her eyes.

I let the anger burn,

knowing some lessons

time alone can teach.

Another heartbreak waited in the wings,

another friendship destined to shatter,

but I only whispered:

"Guard your heart, sweet girl."

About Dad—I offered gentle wisdom:

Grace tempered with boundaries,

strength woven through forgiveness.

My untouched latte drew her concern.

I could only smile, soft and hesitant,

murmuring about self-care

when I wanted to map the minefields ahead.

We parted, each carrying new weight:

She with glimpses of future storms,

I with echoes of lost innocence.

Then, a healing thought:

My youngest self, untouched by time,

would run to me with open arms—

no questions, no judgments,

just pure, uncomplicated love.

And in that thought, I found peace.