You’re 16 and I’m 28

You’re 16 and starry-eyed, a foreigner in a new city. You packed your things and loaded your dreams into a backpack, not knowing the city’s loneliness would seep into your bones. But I reckon every city feels lonely without your mother in it. You’re so painfully shy that you struggle to tuck even a hint of your shadow away, afraid to take up space. I still wonder why you were so afraid to leave a dent in the sand where you stood.

We’re so different, you and I, but I’m somehow still you, and you are somehow still me. I cannot reconcile the two, but a hint of you lingers within me. That familiar loneliness that almost drowned you—I still submerge myself in it on random Tuesday mornings.

We’re 28 now, and it’s a bit easier, but never less confusing. I just want you to know that finishing that degree and getting that license felt rewarding for a while until it didn’t anymore. We worked our ass off to achieve it, and now I’m not even sure I want it anymore. We tried so hard, and I’m sorry, but I feel like I’m stuck with all these unmatched pieces of failed attempts to be something. I wonder why I feel this way—it’s weird to be 28 and have nothing figured out.

You’re 16, confused, and lonely. I’m 28, still confused, but a little less lonely now. I have faith that the 38-year-old version of us will be happier, albeit still a tad bit confused, haha. We never really stop figuring ourselves out anyway; we’re all still trying to make sense of how and why we exist. We’ll be fine.