28th Feb, Friday 2025
2:06AM
This is what I wrote, I cried writing it.
I met my younger self for coffee.
She was almost an hour late,
I arrived fifteen minutes past.
I wore my dark hair in a twirled-up bun,
Her hair was red and wild, a reckless seventeen.
I had blue denim jeans on,
She wore a bodycon dress.
She had a face full of makeup,
and her acne marks were peeking through.
I barely had any. Just enough to look presentable.
She hesitates, then asks, “So did we become a writer?”
I shake my head, no.
I tell her about my role, and she gasps in awe. “Wow, us!”
I let her bask in delight and stop short of saying more.
No need to burst her bubble.
She’s eager to know if we finally meet a guy,
I show her my rings.
He’s so much taller than us, I say. He cooks,
he frustrates us aplenty, but he makes us roll over in laughter.
She’s dizzy with joy. We've never met anyone at the right time. Phew!
She takes a huge sip of her iced matcha latte,
And she whispers,
“Are ah pa and ma still fighting a lot?”
My palms are sweaty, and I start fidgeting.
“No...it’s quiet at home now.”
She looks at me in disbelief,
And she watches as tears well up in my eyes.
“Ah pa?”
I nod.
She’s fighting back tears now,
We sit in silence.
I want to apologize for being weak,
I want to tell her we still don’t have everything figured out,
Even after turning thirty.
That I am lost and frightened too.
But I look at her and say,
Everything will get better. You’ll see.
She looks at me with her watery, glass eyes
And gives me a light nod of faith.
She knows her heart will one day be broken,
But today she will love them more.
I hope we meet for coffee again,
I will give her a tight hug this time.
