I met my younger self for coffee.
She was fifteen minutes late.
I was a few minutes early and made sure to grab a table outside.
We are both wearing loose fitting clothes and no bra.
Her eyebrows are overplucked where mine have grown in.
She apologizes and tells me she’s a little hungover.
I laugh softly and tell her it’s okay.
I mention I don’t drink anymore and ask her what she did last night.
She said she went to a party with her boyfriend, but his ex-girlfriend was there.
I know that she drank too much to settle her nerves because she never feels good enough.
I don’t have it in me to tell her we still feel that way.
Finally, we order.
She gets an iced vanilla latte.
I order an herbal iced tea.
I tell her I don’t drink coffee or caffeine.
She asks why, and I tell her it makes me anxious.
I tell her my heart is sensitive.
I look in her eyes and can sense she feels the same but can’t admit it.
I tell her it’s so good to see her.
I grab her hand which is the same as mine although we are different people.
I look at her body knowing she still feels safe in it.
Detached, maybe, but safe.
She hasn’t yet known grief or fear or sickness.
I wish I could remember what that feels like.
She tells me it’s good to get out of the house.
I tell her this is the first time I’ve left my apartment all week.
I explain I finally have my own place, and it’s been the happiest time in my life.
She says she can’t wait to live by herself one day, and we both agree we love spending time alone.
She tells me she’s going to the movies after this.
She loves film and wants to work in Hollywood.
I tell her I used to work in Hollywood and think it’s overrated, but I love movies, too.
I tell her I am going to church after this.
She says she doesn’t believe in God.
I look closely at her skin and wish I still had it.
It’s rosy and sunburnt from her spring break trip to Mexico.
She says it was the first time she’s been out of the country.
I tell her I’ve been to over twenty and even lived in Paris.
She says her mom loves Paris, but they haven’t spoken in months.
I tell her to call her mom while she still can.
I then give her a hug goodbye and struggle to let go.
I want to tell her I’ve searched for her everywhere and have fought endlessly to feel like she does right now.
My eyes swell with tears, but she just smiles and tells me we’ll see each other again in a few years.

ProWriting Aid: 100