Tọlá Belva

I met my younger self for tea today. She arrived with wide eyes and an air of curiosity, the same wonder she always carried, the same eagerness to dream without restraint. She stared at me, scanning my face, my hands, my posture—searching for traces of the girl she used to be. Searching for the dreams she once held so close.

I smiled at her, sensing the silent questions forming in her mind.

“Did we make it?”
“Did we become who we wanted to be?”
“Are we happy?”

I reached for my cup, the warmth of the tea grounding me. “Some dreams stayed,” I told her. “Some changed. But we’re still unfolding.”

She exhaled softly, her shoulders relaxing, as if relieved that life hadn’t betrayed us entirely. She sipped her tea, processing the words. I watched her, remembering the days when she thought the world was a map of infinite possibilities, when she made promises to herself that felt unbreakable.

I wanted to tell her everything. About the detours, the heartbreaks, the unexpected joys. About the friendships that faded and the new ones that arrived like serendipitous gifts. About the fears that still whisper at night but no longer hold the same power. About the quiet confidence that grew where uncertainty used to live.

But I didn’t need to say it all. She looked at me, truly looked at me, and I think she understood. Maybe she saw a strength she hadn’t imagined, a softness that remained despite life’s sharp edges.

And I think we both felt at peace.

The girl I used to be, and the woman I have become—sitting across from each other, sipping tea, knowing we are still a work in progress, and that is enough.