I met my younger self today for a coffee.
He was 12 minutes early —
I was 30 minutes late.

He had that fresh smile in his eyes,
like he’d just woken from the best sleep of his life.
I had bags under mine,
from countless sleepless nights.

I ordered a coffee for myself.
He stared at the menu,
quietly searching for the cheapest thing he could afford.
But I ordered him a smooth, cold drink —
maybe he’d like it this time.

His shoes were torn,
his shirt patched with the same old white thread.
I wore polished shoes,
and a nice shirt that smelled of comfort.

But his arms were stronger,
his skin worn from work and sun.
I had scars —
perhaps he noticed them from far away.

We sat together in silence
until he looked up and asked,
“Did we make it this far?”

I smiled.
“Yes, little one… we did.”

He grinned,
“Was it rough to get here?
Or did the path just come with its own battles?”

I nodded.
“There were falls…
but we always got back up.”

He tilted his head, curious.
“But I’m still a kid —
how do we already have so many old scars?
Aren’t you supposed to be young?”

I paused.
My voice caught.
I snapped, “Stop.”

But he just smiled,
softly, gently.
“No worries, big brother…
I’m still proud of you.”

Sometimes,
you don’t realize how far you’ve come
until you count the failures you survived.

This little boy —
with torn shoes and a shirt from the ’90s —
is still smiling.
Still dreaming.

Maybe…
he’s the man I always wanted to be —
kind, gentle,
and still smiling.

---

We stood up.
I paid the bill.
And this curious mind
was still noticing everything around him.

I bought him an ice cream —
the kind we could never afford as a kid.
And a Naruto manga —
maybe the story he needed
to prepare for the life ahead.

He was thrilled to see so many anime characters.
He grinned and said,
“But I still love the Spider-Man mask.”

Later, I drove him home —
to the same old place I grew up in.
It was dark and small and worn out…
But his presence made it bright.

The silly talks with Mom,
his curious little hands
opening toys just to see how they worked.
He used the motor from a remote-control car
to make a tiny spinning fan.

All the stupid little things we did —
they came rushing back.
And we still had our old Beyblade,
the one we waited years to get,
the one we fought with like it was gold.

---

That little boy —
with scraped knees,
patched clothes,
and big dreams —
was still right here.

And maybe…
he always was.