Tea With My Younger Self

By Habib

If I could sit across from my ten-year-old self, I’d choose a small wooden table in a quiet café, tucked away from the noise of grown-up schedules and the press of too much reality. I’d order two cups of tea — mine strong, black, restless; hers gentle, sweetened with just enough sugar to coax out a smile. She’d look at me wide-eyed, feet swinging above the ground because they couldn’t yet reach the floor.

She’d look like I remember — tangled hair that never obeyed a comb, scabs on her knees from climbing trees too tall for her short legs, the faint smell of chalk dust from all the hours spent scribbling dragons and secret words on the back of homework sheets.

At first, she wouldn’t trust me. She’d squint suspiciously, poking holes in my story. “You’re me? Prove it.”

So I’d tell her about the secret stash of chocolate bars under her bed. About the way she hides her diary inside an old shoebox labeled “school stuff” because she’s clever enough to know no one would ever check there. I’d remind her how she counts the steps from her house to the park — 384 — and how she makes wishes every time a clock hits 11:11.

She’d grin then, eyes flickering with recognition. Her shoulders would soften. She’d wrap both small hands around the warm mug and take a sip, letting the steam hide her shy questions.

I’d want to tell her everything at once. About how many things she’s going to lose, and how many more she’ll find. About the people who will leave her before she’s ready, and the ones she’ll cling to longer than she should. But I’d stop myself. Some things are better left unspoiled.

So I’d start with an apology.

“I’m sorry,” I’d say, leaning closer so only she could hear. “I’m sorry for the promises I didn’t keep. For forgetting how to play. For teaching you to shrink yourself so you’d fit where you didn’t belong. For spending too many years afraid of your own voice.”

She’d look at me, confused. “But I thought we were going to be brave.”

“I know. We were. We are — in ways you can’t see yet. We learned how to speak up, but first we learned how to be quiet. And that hurt more than it should have.”

She’d frown, tracing a finger through a ring of condensation on the table. “Do we have friends?” she’d ask, in the same small voice she used when she asked Mom if monsters were real.

“Yes. Good ones. Ones who remind us who we are when we forget. Some will leave. Some will stay. It’s okay when they go — it doesn’t mean you’re unlovable. It means you’re growing. And people don’t always grow in the same direction.”

She’d nod slowly, not sure she understands, but willing to trust me anyway.

Then I’d tell her the important things — the secrets I wish someone had whispered in my ear before the world’s noise grew too loud.

“You don’t have to be perfect to be loved. You don’t have to be quiet to be safe. You don’t have to please everyone to matter. You will fail, sometimes spectacularly, but you will stand up every single time. You’ll find ways to laugh at the worst parts. You’ll cry in bathrooms and parking lots and sometimes for no reason at all. That’s normal. That’s human. You’re allowed to be a mess.”

She’d giggle at that. Ten-year-olds think messes are wonderful.

I’d tell her about the magic she’s going to carry, hidden in all the ordinary moments: the way her future dog will curl up beside her on stormy nights, the way she’ll find friends who see her whole, the way she’ll write stories that help strangers feel less alone.

I’d remind her to keep dancing barefoot in the kitchen. To keep singing off-key in the shower. To remember that dreams are allowed to change shape — that wanting something different doesn’t mean she’s failed.

I’d warn her gently about the sharp edges ahead. About heartbreak that feels like drowning. About people who will promise forever and mean only until next Tuesday. About how grief carves her out but also makes room for more light.

And before the tea grows cold and time catches up, I’d press her small hand in mine and say, “You are enough. Exactly as you are. Even when you feel empty, even when you feel too much. Promise me you’ll remember that.”

She’d smile then — a gap-toothed, unstoppable smile — and she’d make me pinky swear, like we always did, that I wouldn’t forget her when I grew up.

And maybe, for a moment, I’d believe I really could keep that promise this time.

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