Two Pieces of Cinnamon Rolls
We used to order the same thing.
Two cinnamon rolls.
Just us, and the smell of bakery.
It’s always be our favorite bakery — one of those places that always felt like autumn. Wooden tables, golden light and we’d sit there for hours, lost in conversation. About movies, life, dreams, and things we didn’t yet understand.
If I could describe that day,
Warm. Familiar. Safe.
But time, like the seasons, changes things. We got older. The kind of busyness that makes you think twice before saying
“hey, are you free to talk?”
We never fought, we just faded — gently, politely.
If you know, I still visit that bakery. Alone now.
And somewhere along the way, I stopped ordering cinnamon rolls.
I guess I don’t crave sweetness the way I used to.
These days, I go for the tiramisu.
Bittersweet. Soft. A little messy. A little grown-up.
Like life.
Today, after years, we met again.
It’s always same small table by the window.
You were already there when I walked in.
“I ordered cinnamon rolls,” you smiled, “like you used to love.”
I blinked, then laughed softly.
“Oh. I just ordered tiramisu.”
A pause.
“I guess I like it better now. It’s… more balanced.”
You nodded. Then asked, “So… how’s life?
I smiled. That same old kind of smile that hides a thousand untold things.
“It’s alright,” I said. “Busy. Quiet. A little lonely sometimes. But I think I’m where I’m supposed to be.”
You stirred your coffee. Looked out the window like you used to do when you were trying to say something without saying it.
“Yeah,” you said. “Me too.”
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There was a silence between us, but not the awkward kind.
It was the silence of two people who knew each other deeply once,
and now are just… catching up with the grown-up versions of themselves.
You slid the plate of cinnamon rolls a little closer to me.
“Still warm,” you said.
I took a bite — not because I missed the taste,
but maybe because part of me missed you.
The cinnamon was still sweet, but not as sweet as I remembered.
Or maybe I just wasn’t the same.
And that was okay.
Because sometimes, people grow in different directions.
Sometimes, the same place means different things to two different people.
And sometimes, two pieces of cinnamon rolls
are just reminders
of a version of us that once was —
tender, simple, unforgettable.
We sat there, quietly.
The air between us was warm, but filled with things unsaid.
Then I looked at you and finally asked,
“Did you still see me the same?
Like the girl from a few years ago — clumsy, unsure, too soft for her own good?”
You looked surprised.
“I don’t know,” you said. “Maybe I never really knew who you were becoming.”
I nodded slowly.
“I’ve finished with myself, you know,” I said, almost whispering.
“I’ve grown. I’ve failed. I’ve cried. I’ve loved. I’ve changed.
I’ve found pieces of myself in messy rooms and quiet mornings.
And now… I think I’ve become the best version of me.”
You looked down.
And that’s when I asked what I’ve always wanted to say:
“But where were you when I was figuring all of that out?
Why now?
Why only now, when I’ve already made peace with your absence?”
You were quiet for a while.
Then you said,
“I watched you. In silence.”
I laughed a little, not bitter — just tired.
“In silence?” I echoed. “But silence doesn’t show.
It doesn’t feel like care. It just feels like… disappearing.”
You looked away.
“I thought you were mad at me. That you cut me off.”
I shook my head slowly.
“I did,” I said. “Almost.
But I’ve made peace.
And when you’ve made peace, you don’t carry things like anger anymore.”
We didn’t say much after that.
Same place.
Two people who once shared two cinnamon rolls,
Now sharing the silence
between who we were
and who we are now.
