Holding Hands Across Time

I met the younger me for coffee at ten.

She was late, nervous, and shy —

I was early, waiting, almost excited to see her.

My hair was loose, waves doing their own thing. 

She had hers pulled tight in a bun, wishing it were straight, like the other girls.

I ordered matcha. She stuck with plain coffee. 

She smiled, awkward and small. 

I reached across the table, held her hands, and told her, "We’re okay."

She doesn’t need to carry the story of how much she gave up just to keep going.

I told her instead about the adventures, the way she lived so many lives.

She doesn’t need to know the heartbreaks that carved out space for joy. 

And of how he found herself along the process. 

I walked her back to our old house in Iligan, 

the one that still smells like childhood and innocence. 

We won’t meet again for another ten years.

But every day, she’ll think of the woman who stayed resilient, 

who let herself cry, and honored her scars. 

-E.

(Posted on Instagram on February 16, 2025. Revised on December 15, 2025, for The Weekend Pages.)