Lokey

Most days feel normal. I wake up, brush my teeth, stretch in silence. The air’s usually still, and so am I—not rushing toward the day, not avoiding it either. Just moving through it. I open my phone, check messages, scroll past things that don’t matter, laugh at something half-funny. Life has settled into a quiet rhythm. Functional. Familiar. Not bad, not great. Just okay.

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

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

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 good for me. My stomach never loved it. My doctor definitely didn’t. But I kept returning anyway. There was something soothing about the repetition—the same barista smile, the hum of early morning playlists, the first warm sip cutting through a tired day.

Until I had to stop.

No drama. 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 a café window or hear steamed milk hissing, 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 muscle memory disguised as longing.

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

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

Not out of longing. Recognition.

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

The truth is, some part of me still misses what it used to feel like. Even knowing better now. Even knowing it wasn’t perfect; even knowing it hurt more than it helped.

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

Like the latte.

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I ordered it again. If I’d enjoy it the same, if it would taste like I remember. But 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, 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 on my way somewhere else, pretending not to notice it. But I always do.

I remember sitting there once with that same vanilla latte—the foam 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 when no one else does.

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

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

There are days I feel free of it. Then there are days 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. 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 upset your stomach. Not because you’re reckless, but because part of you remembers how warm it made your hands feel.

There’s this strange 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.

Warm in memory, sweet on the tongue, but no longer something I reach for.

ironically sips vanilla latte