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Coffee with my younger self

I met my younger self for coffee today and I don’t even drink coffee. She came smiling and jumping around with such childish beauty, and yet, I stayed in my seat, looking for the meds in my bag. She ordered something sweet and tasty, while I opted for an alcohol-infused drink She said alcohol is bad for one’s body and looked at me warily. 

I said, “So?”

She talked about her dreams of being free-being a fashion designer, travelling, exploring the fashion world. I told her I am currently unemployed. She said she loves to read, write, and draw, and that she’s doing well in her studies—though she gets in trouble for talking too much. I couldn’t tell her that I can't even continue my PhD because I can’t keep up with the pressure.

We didn’t talk much after that. She’s always been a sensitive kid, always talking and talking, yet so vulnerable. 

And I didn’t say much either.

She asked me what I’m doing nowadays. I said I write and paint. She lit up and asked to see my works.
But I didn’t have the courage to show her any. She showed me her little amateur, yet beautiful, sketches her loving and romantic stories. Still, I couldn’t show her mine. I knew it would break her.

I lit a cigarette. She looked shocked and put off and told me it’s bad for my health. 

“As usual,” I said, “So?”

She couldn’t take it anymore. She started to cry, the emotional little thing. She begged: why do I do these things to hurt myself, even though I know they’ve always been bad for me? 

“I don’t know,” I replied.

She told me she got up at 6 a.m. and cycled all around the neighborhood. I said, “That’s good for you.”
But I couldn’t tell her I can barely get up anymore.

She grew more and more agitated as she looked at me and listened to me. She cried and cried, as she beheld who she had grown into. She demanded answers. She begged me to fix myself.

I got up and left her behind.
I didn’t have the heart or the courage to even look at her.

As I left, I cried silently because I was a coward. And because... she should keep living the life she dreams of. She deserves it.

Not me.

I lit another cigarette.
Each puff adds a second more to my death and I am fully aware of that. I know she is crying, asking someone to take her home. And yet, I cannot go back to her.

She has to live her dream. She cannot know the truth. She absolutely cannot know the truth.

PART - II

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