i met my younger self for coffee, or "rebecca"

a fluid take on a fleeting trend

Mar 27, 2025

i met my younger self for coffee today.

she ordered a peppermint mocha and gave the name “rebecca” to be written on her cup. she looked self-conscious about the name she gave. but i didn’t press her for more information.

she watched me as i ordered a decaf chai with oat milk. why not whole? she asked.

i told her she’d still have a couple more blissful years with dairy—so she better not take it for granted. she smiled politely, as she would to anyone who sounded so old.

we sit at a small table in the corner, both our preferred spot. but we decide to sit date-style, side by side, so we can both cozy up in that little nook with the room in full view.

we bond over the fact that we both like to watch the coffee shop painting before us, not be a mannequin in the portrait. at the sound of “mannequin,” she almost loses her cool. but again, i don’t press her for more information.

we talk about the plays she’s done, the performances she’s been in lately. she says she experienced something new the other day at rehearsal—a panic attack in the midst of singing.

she didn’t like the feeling of being unable to steady the room. and she felt betrayed by her own breath as it threatened to collapse in her lungs and follow suit with the caving of her heart.

she asks if that sounded too dramatic. i tell her, no—but i’m being kind.

she worries that the panic attacks won’t stop, that they might follow her everytime she steps on a stage. i don’t know what to tell her, but i try my best to soften the blow.

not every time, i say. but these episodes won’t be going away either.

she shifts the conversation back to me—so do we ever make it to new york?

i say we visit plenty of times, but we don’t end up living there. she asks, why not?

i give her a look, offering her time to piece it together. if a rehearsal alone is enough to give her a panic attack, imagine living in a bustling city where the speed limit for walking is a minimum of 5 miles per hour.

she thinks she ought to be able to handle it. i don’t tell her she can’t—because she could.

she just doesn’t know that one day, she’ll choose not to. and the world won’t end there.

i ask her how her peppermint mocha is. she smiles and says it tastes like winter. she thinks that’s the most poetic thing she’s ever said. i chuckle at her naïveté.

i ask if she’s read macbeth in school yet. she says they’re in the middle of it now. there’s a final project they have to complete in the coming weeks—a choice to write an analytical essay or a personal one.

i ask her which one she’s leaning towards. she considers the question, mostly out of courtesy. she knows she could write an analytical essay—she’s done it plenty of times before. but she’s afraid to admit out loud that her gut instinct is telling her to go personal.

i ask her what the hold-up is. now, she takes her time.

she’s never written in that style before. could she really write something vulnerable and bare and lay it out for judgment?

it feels daunting to offer up so much of herself on something as intimate yet mundane as a sheet of paper. she knows that the words would probably flow, but what would they say? what would they reveal?

it’s the riskier option, in her mind. but she hasn’t started writing yet. i don’t tell her it will only take her one sitting to complete.

instead, i ask what she wants to write about. death, she says bluntly. then she retracts.

is that too morbid a topic? she asks.

for macbeth? i reply. absolutely not.

she worries how it may come across. here she is, fifteen years old and pondering all of our inevitable demise.

i tell her it’s not as uncommon as she thinks. it just doesn’t fit in with the mold she’s felt comfortable fulfilling so far.

that seems to knock her down a peg, being reminded of who she feels she’s supposed to be.

there’s an ugliness to her expression now—her saccharine turning bitter. she doesn’t try to hide it either. and i’m honestly impressed with how willing she is to sink into this feeling.

she doesn’t think anyone can understand what she’s really going through—how each day, she can’t help but think of the teacher she lost suddenly to lung cancer. she doesn’t understand how a person’s life can be taken away within a matter of weeks of getting a diagnosis. and she doesn’t get why he didn’t tell anyone—not even his colleagues.

but what stings the most is not how everyone seems to act like nothing has happened, or how she resents the world for so blamelessly continuing on. she hates that she’s used to being called “bubbly,” “innocent,” “pure,” and “naive.”

because now, she’s angry—and for the first time in her life, she lets herself be.

she can sense this anger is helping her come into her own. but she feels the tension chipping away at other losses too, like her relationship with her mom. no longer is she the sweet daughter willing to be whatever is expected of her at any given moment.

she has a mind. she has a mouth. and she’s no longer afraid to use them.

it scares her how much this fury has been liberating. she’s not sure yet what the true cost of her freedom will be. but she knows that she can no longer choke down a response, not stand up for herself when witnessing injustice so shameless in its display, and most often carried out by the adults around her.

i don’t tell her that this is only the beginning. that things only get worse before they get better. what good does it do to dangle a carrot when the now is what’s killing her?

and so we sink—into the dark sky by 5 p.m., into the cold air blowing through her bedroom window. the coffee shop becomes a small reprieve to the darkness all around us.

a moment of gentleness as the tempest rages outside.

she traces the letters of the name “rebecca” on her cup, and begins to tell me about her teacher.

she tells me how he loved to tell stories—that he’d stop rehearsal just to gather them around for some sordid tale, sometimes to the chagrin of other students. his most famous one was “the mannequin story,” and it was a badge of honor to any student who heard it.

he told other stories too—how he was a playwright and that he had difficulty remembering peoples’ names because he had already assigned them one like a character in a play.

immediately, every student began to ask what their character name was. but he only agreed to divulge one, leaving the rest of the class disgruntled they wouldn’t also be meeting their alter ego that day.

months later, she had the opportunity to ask him what hers might be—but only if he was willing to share.

she says he gave her a wistful smile and said, “i always thought you looked like a rebecca. that’s my favorite name, you know.”

i look at the clock and make an excuse to end our meeting here, wanting her to live in the sweetness of that memory before the rest of her reality comes crashing down.

she thanks me for listening, and i thank her for sharing herself with me. as i grab my coat and belongings, she asks me if i think it’s weird she moonlights as rebecca whenever she goes to a coffee shop.

i tell her no, it’s not weird. it’s a way of keeping him alive.

she smiles at that thought, and i head toward the door. i look back over my shoulder and add one more thing—

keep that name safe, i say.

why? she asks.

i don’t tell her it’s the name of her future wife; that their meeting would feel like all this pain was worth it. it would inspire too many follow-up questions anyway.

so i just smile, and duck my head out the doorway, knowing with certainty that they will be alright.

— misao

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