I met my younger self for coffee this morning.
.
She walked in, bright-eyed and full of dreams, her hands stained with ink and paint. She sat across from me, her legs swinging slightly beneath the chair, too small to touch the ground. She had a notebook tucked, the pages filled with sketches, unfinished stories, and wild ideas that only an eight-year-old could believe in without hesitation.
.
She studied me for a moment, eyes narrowing. “You don’t look like an artist.”
.
I flinched. “I know.”
.
She stirred her drink, unimpressed. “So… do we have our own art studio yet?”
.
I looked down at my cup, tracing the rim with my finger. “Not yet.”
.
She frowned. “Then what do we do?”
.
I hesitated. “It’s… complicated.”