I Met My Younger Self for a Coffee Today

She’s already there when I walk in, sitting at a small table by the window, fingers wrapped around a cup she hasn’t touched yet. She looks up as I approach, and for a second, we just stare at each other.

I know exactly what she’s thinking.

That’s me?

I sit down. She’s dressed in all black, of course. She always is. Not because she particularly loves it, but because it’s easy, because it looks polished, because it gives her a sense of control over how she’s seen. Silver jewelry—stacked rings on every finger, a thin necklace she never takes off, bracelets that jangle softly every time she moves. She’s so intentional, so careful, like every single detail has been curated to say something specific about who she is.

I glance down at myself now—still covered in jewelry, but gold. Bigger, bolder. My hair is much shorter, but voluminous, wild in a way she would never have let hers be. She loved the weight of her long hair, the way it softened things, the way it felt like a shield. I used to believe cutting it would mean letting go of something essential, something her. But now, I can’t imagine going back.

I order a chai latte without thinking. She raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. So we became one of those people.

She orders black coffee, pretending to like it. I let her.

She watches me carefully, posture stiff, expression unreadable. I know her well enough to know she’s waiting for something. Some confirmation. Some reassurance.

Did we make it?

And the thing is—she got everything she wanted.

She got into the dream school. She was valedictorian. She hit every milestone exactly on time, played every role perfectly, checked every box. She did everything right.

And yet, looking at her now, I wonder if she ever stopped to ask herself why she wanted it.

Because the truth is, we’re not that different. I haven’t let her down. I haven’t gone off track. But I see things more clearly now. I see her more clearly now.

She isn’t lost or naive. She’s sharp, perceptive, endlessly curious. She’s always known how to think her way through things, always found comfort in knowing the rules. But I also know how much she’s compromised. How much time she’s spent doing things she didn’t actually care about because she thought she had to. How often she’s kept people around just because they were there. How many times she’s ignored the voice in her own head in favor of someone else’s expectations.

She spent so much time being everything she was supposed to be that she never stopped to ask if any of it actually mattered to her.

I want to ask her: Did you love the things you worked so hard for, or did you just love being the kind of person who could get them?

Did she think the validation would last longer than a few fleeting moments before she had to chase the next thing? Did she think arriving would finally make her feel full? Or was she always planning on figuring that part out later?

Instead, she keeps searching my face for proof that we’re still the same.

And for a second, I almost want to tell her what I see.

That she was so busy making sure she never let anything slip through the cracks that she never stopped to wonder if some things were meant to fall away. That she doesn’t have to grip everything so tightly. That she can let go of the things that don’t feel right, and it won’t mean she’s failed. That she doesn’t have to keep proving herself. That she can change her mind. That she will.

But I don’t.

I let her sit there, stirring her coffee, staring at me like she’s still trying to decide whether I’m a disappointment or a relief.

And for the first time, I realize—I don’t need her to decide.