The café is the same as I remember—dim lighting, the hum of quiet conversations, the faint scent of cinnamon and tea in the air. I take a deep breath, my fingers wrapped around a warm cup, but my hands are shaking. Because I know who I’m about to meet. The door chimes. They step inside hesitantly, scanning the room before their eyes land on me. My heart clenches. It’s the Younger Me . She looks tired. Not just in the way of sleepless nights, but in the way of someone carrying too much for too long. Her eyes are puffy, like she has cried too much and has no tears left to give. Her hands are shoved into the pockets of a sweater that doesn’t quite fit, her shoulders slightly hunched, like she is bracing for bad news. She don’t sit down right away. "Are you really me?" she asks, with her small voice. I nod. "Yeah." A long pause. Then, she swallows hard and sits across from me. Her tea arrives—just how we used to like it. She stares at it with hands wrapped around the c...
