Meeting my younger self for coffee (when Im not NBM and not down with GE)

Both of us arrived 1 hour early. She sits before me, hands curled around a cup too full, spoon clinking against porcelain, stirring like she can slow time. Her eyes, wide with wonder, scan my face for secrets— for answers, for proof that the world did not break us. I want to reach across the table, trace the softness still in her bones, tell her not to give it all away. But she is glowing, bright with a hope that is so shining. “Do we make it?” she asks, voice light as steam rising, and I laugh, soft and knowing. “We do. In ways you wouldn’t expect.” She exhales relief, unaware of the storms she will carry, the names she will whisper like prayers before learning to let go. I sip my coffee, watching her, memorizing the version of myself who still believes love is forever, who does not flinch at the word goodbye. I could warn her. I could tell her about the nights we unravel, the doors that close too soon, the hands that slip away. But she does not need my grief— not yet. So I smile, tuck the ache between sips, and let her dream a little longer. ◡̈