I met my younger self for coffee this morning.

She was already there when I arrived, sitting by the window, fingers tracing patterns on the table. She looked up when I approached, eyes searching mine like she was trying to see if I’d become everything she hoped for.“You’re late,” she said, her voice carrying that familiar mix of impatience and curiosity.I smiled. “You know I get caught up in things.”She nodded, like she understood. Of course, she did.The silence between us was comfortable but weighted. I saw it in her eyes that she wanted to ask about the things that mattered.“Did we ever get past it?” she asked finally.I knew what she meant. The hands that touched us without permission. The betrayal of trust. The moments we realized the world saw us as nothing more than parts to be consumed.I exhaled. “We didn’t let it break us.”She nodded again, this time slower. She took a sip of her coffee, black, just as bitter as she liked it.“And school?” she asked.“We’re still in it,” I said. “Still pushing. Still figuring things out. We made it to third year.”Her lips curled slightly. “Still juggling a million things?”I laughed. “Project manager, content writer, brand strategist, welfare director, Storyteller, essay competitions, video designer, sponsorship proposals, you name it.”She snorted. “Still overloading yourself?”I wanted to say no, but she would know I was lying.She set her cup down. “And the people?”I hesitated.“The ones we lost?” she asked softly.I swallowed. “Some drifted. Some walked away. Some… I still miss every day.”Her fingers clenched. “Do we ever write to him?”I looked down. “Only letters we don’t send.”Her face fell for a second before she composed herself. “And the new ones?”I smiled. “There are good ones. People who see us. People who care. We’re learning to accept that.”She leaned forward. “And do we finally love ourselves?”I didn’t answer right away. Instead, I reached across the table, taking her hand in mine.“We’re getting there.”She squeezed my fingers. “Good.” The café buzzed around us, but for a moment, it was just the two of us; the past and present, meeting halfway. She finished her coffee, stood up, and gave me one last searching look.“I’m proud of you,” she said, before walking away.I watched her go, then picked up my cup, still warm.For the first time in a long time, I believed her.

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