Most days feel normal.

I wake up, brush my teeth, stretch in silence. The air’s usually still, and so am I — not really rushing to start the day, not avoiding it either. Just… moving through it. I open my phone, check messages, scroll past things I don’t care about, laugh at something half-funny. Life has turned into a quiet rhythm. Functional. Familiar. Not bad. Not great. Just okay.

But sometimes — and I never really know when — something small slips through. A song I haven’t heard in a while. A scent on someone’s jacket. A familiar tone in a stranger’s voice.

And suddenly, I’m back in a version of myself I haven’t seen in a long time.

It’s not about someone in particular. It’s not about romance or heartbreak. It’s about how things used to feel. The warmth. The closeness. The consistency.

It reminds me of the mornings I used to buy vanilla lattes without thinking — every single day. Same place. Same order. Sometimes with foam art, sometimes not. It was less about the coffee and more about the ritual — the way it bookended my mornings with something that felt like comfort.

I knew it wasn’t great for me. My stomach never loved it. My doctor definitely didn’t. But I kept coming back to it anyway. There was something soothing about the repetition — the same barista smile, the hum of early morning playlists, the first warm sip on a tired day.

Until I had to stop.

Just like that. It wasn’t a dramatic goodbye. No final sip. No last look at the cup. Just a quiet shift in routine. A new habit forced by necessity.

But I still think about it.

Every time I pass by a café window or hear the sound of steamed milk, something in me pauses. I don’t walk in. I don’t reach for it. But I feel that flicker — the old craving, soft and unreasonable. Like a memory disguised as a reflex.

Some things don’t leave. They just get quieter. They live in the background, showing up when your guard’s a little low and the day’s a little still.

I’ve changed since then. New habits. New routines. New people around me. But there are moments — quiet, inconvenient ones — where I still find myself comparing the present to something I didn’t fully appreciate until it was gone.

Not out of longing. Just recognition.

It’s strange how your body remembers what your mind is trying to forget. How your feet pause at the same corner store. How your eyes scan a crowd, not looking for anyone, but still recognizing patterns.

And the truth is — some part of me still misses what it used to feel like. Even if I know better now. Even if it wasn’t perfect. Even if it hurt more than it helped.

It’s not about being stuck. I don’t wake up heartbroken. It’s not sadness. It’s not even nostalgia. It’s just a low hum in the background of my day — a reminder of the things I once needed.

Like the latte.

Sometimes, I still wonder what would happen if I ordered it again. If I’d enjoy it the same. If it would taste like I remember. But deep down, I know it’s not about the drink. It’s about what it represented: familiarity, comfort, something that made me feel held — even for five quiet minutes on a busy morning.

You don’t always miss the thing. You miss who you were when you had it.

I was softer then. Less guarded. I let things in easier. I let things go slower.

Now I pace myself. Now I measure before I sip.

There’s this bench in front of a place I used to frequent. Sometimes I walk past it on my way to somewhere else, pretending I don’t notice it. But I always do.

I remember sitting there once with that same vanilla latte — the foam just barely hanging on, the heat of the cup slowly cooling. The world felt manageable then. Nothing too heavy. Everything just… made sense, in that fleeting moment.

I sit there sometimes, still. No coffee in hand. Just silence and the city moving around me.

Funny how places remember things too. Even if no one else does.

I’ve tried replacing the routine. Different drinks. Different cafés. Different people to sit across from. But nothing really hits the same. Not because what I had before was perfect — but because it was mine. Familiar. Even if flawed.

People talk a lot about closure. They make it sound like a door you walk through. But I think it’s more like a hallway — one you learn to stop pacing.

There are days where I feel free of it. And then there are days where I feel like I’ve only learned how to carry it more quietly.

Both are valid. Both are progress.

I’ve learned not everything has to be a wound. Some things are just marks. Reminders. Imprints left by things that once fit into your life perfectly, even if only temporarily.

I’m not angry about it. I’m not bitter. I just miss it sometimes — in a vague, shapeless way that doesn’t need fixing.

The same way you crave a drink you know will mess with your stomach. Not because you’re reckless, but because part of you still remembers how warm it made your hands feel.

There’s this strange sense of peace that comes with not acting on a craving. Sitting with it. Letting it pass. Reminding yourself that you’ve outgrown things you used to think were essential.

That kind of control isn’t loud. It’s quiet. It’s sipping tea instead and still thinking, “It’s not the same,” but choosing not to go back anyway.

Some people call that strength. I just call it time.

Time passed. Habits broke. Routines shifted. And somewhere along the way, so did I.

I still get cravings. For coffee. For comfort. For things I can’t explain. But I don’t chase them anymore. I just notice them, nod, and keep walking.

Not haunted. Not stuck. Just human.

Like a vanilla latte — warm in memory, sweet on the tongue, but no longer something I reach for.

* ironically sips vanilla latte *