Meeting my younger self

I met my younger self for coffee at 10:03.

She was rushing.

I was already waiting.

She ordered a cappuccino with soy milk,

hands wrapped around the cup like it held answers.

I sipped my matcha slowly, letting time stretch.

Her hair was short, with uneven bangs she kept fiddling with.

Mine was long now, falling past my shoulders.

She sat across from me, tapping her fingers against the cup.

Restless.

Tired in a way she didn’t know how to name.

Pesto curled up at my feet,

his little paws warm against my shoes. 

She glanced at him curious.

“You have a dog now?” she asked, half-smiling.

I nodded.

“He chose me as much as I chose him.”

I wanted to tell her –

she can stop searching.

One day, she’ll understand

the past isn’t where she’ll find answers,

and everything meant for her

will find its way to her. 

That one day, love will feel safe, not uncertain.

That she will still chose quiet corners of cafés,

but now, with a notebook open,

writing poems instead of making lists of things to do.

But I don’t tell her.

She doesn’t need fixing.

She just needs to be seen.

So I meet her eyes,

offer a warm smile.

She exhales, just a little.

And when she leaves,

I watch her go—

knowing she’ll find her way to me,

when she’s ready.