I met my younger self for coffee today. She was twenty minutes early. I was ten minutes late. She ordered a Dr Pepper. I got a double espresso latte. I smiled and asked how she was, knowing deep in my heart she was doubting if she even wanted to live. She plastered on a smile. Said, “I’m okay.” And I whispered, “You’re gonna be fine.” We talked about life, how it was draining everything out of her. I told her it’s only a matter of time until she forgets how much she weighs, or how much she ate for lunch. She gave a half-smile— she didn’t believe me. But one day she will. Then she said the name I’ve been dreading. She asked how he was. I said “Fine,” tears stinging my eyes. She noticed, but she’s never been the type to push a conversation past where it wants to go. Still, I could see it— the way her eyes dimmed, her shoulders folding in on themselves. She was sad. And I knew it would break her more if I told her what he did. So I didn’t. I stood, said I had to go. She rose too, saying, “I hope I’ll see you again.” I smiled— hoping fate wouldn’t be that cruel— and before I left, I told her: “Don’t water dead plants just because you remember when they were green.” I left crying. Because I knew she’d understand in a month, and I wouldn’t be there to tell her it was going to be alright. Neither me nor fate are that cruel.