i meet myself in dreams sometimes.
past-me sits across the table, twenty-two and terrified. still believes in right answers, still thinks pain is optional. two sugars in the coffee and a splash of milk. i remember that sweetness.
future-me leans against the window with empty hands and an easy smile, like someone who already knows the stuff i'm still learning the hard way.
past-me's wounds are still fresh: rejection letters in a desk drawer, that one relationship that ended badly, a few dreams that didn't make it. i want to say it gets better, and that the bad stuff turns into stories eventually. but past-me needs to go through it. that's how past-me becomes me.
future-me has scars i haven't got yet, and looks at me the way you'd watch someone do a puzzle you finished years ago.
the conversation is weird. past-me wants to talk about success and making it and whether any of it matters. future-me wants to talk about lunch, and sleep, and a sunset last tuesday. i'm stuck in the middle, translating.
past-me thought being average was the same as dying, and chased greatness like it owed money. future-me seems to have found a lot in tuesday afternoons, and thinks being good beats being great. i'm somewhere in between, trying to want less.
honestly, past-me's certainty looks a bit cute now, like a kid in their parent's suit. and future-me's calm feels impossible from here, like trying to imagine enjoying vegetables when you're five.
past-me would think i've given up. future-me knows i'm still trying, just pickier about what's worth it. i guess i have to disappoint one of them to turn into the other.
the dream fades like it always does, and it's morning.
my coffee's gone cold. i drink it anyway.