Life yarns

I have to go back in time to find myself. It is a kind of everyday routine for me. I enter the café, where the air hums with the quiet buzz of a thousand social interactions happening in silence. Everyone around me is glued to their phones, their thumbs moving in a blur. They talk, like, post, and message. All alone.

I don’t even need to glance at the menu. I head straight for the time machines—large, sleek screens flickering with possibilities. They offer a chance to travel through time, to revisit the past. Today, I know exactly where I need to go. I swipe my visa card, and with a tap, I select the first option.

1980

I arrive at our summer house. The scent of the sea and salt fills the room. Sitting on the bed is my seven-year-old self, lost in the rhythmic task of knitting a bracelet. Bright strands of yarn spill around her like a rainbow scattered carelessly across the floor. Her hair is cut short, boyish, and her skin is golden from the summer sun. She’s completely absorbed in her tiny, innocent world.

I materialize beside her as a hologram, barely more than a whisper of presence in the room. She doesn’t even glance up. Her fingers move expertly, tying knots, creating something with the same care she applies to everything else. I try to speak, my voice echoing as if from the bottom of a deep well.

“Hello,” I say softly. “I’m you. From the future. I came here to see how you’re doing.”

Her small hands pause for a moment, but she doesn’t look up. I’m not sure if she can even hear me. She remains fixated on her work, oblivious to my presence.

“I don’t want to scare you,” I continue, “I just came to tell you that you’re going to have a good life. Don’t worry.”

Still, no reaction. She doesn’t respond. I try again, changing my approach.

“What beautiful colors you have there,” I say. “You’re doing a fantastic job.”

She sighs a soft, wistful sound. “You think so?” Her voice is full of a child’s uncertainty.

“I know so. That’s why I’m here. I want to tell you that you’re doing great. I know it feels like no one appreciates your hard work, but you’re doing more than most people would. You don’t have to try so hard all the time, you know. Go outside. Play. Get dirty. Be free. You’re a child. It’s okay to be happy.”

She doesn’t answer, but her hands keep moving, knotting the yarn into a bracelet, one loop at a time.

“Can you promise me something?” she asks, lifting her eyes at last, her expression open and vulnerable.

“Of course,” I say, reaching out to ruffle her hair, a soft touch that feels almost real.

“Will you wear this bracelet when we’re older?”

I smile, my heart heavy. “I promise.”

The room begins to fade around me. My body starts to lose its solidity. It’s time to go.

I’m back in the café now. The screen before me flickers: “End of time. Try again.” I swipe my visa card again and select the next time period.

1990

I find myself at seventeen. My teenage self is standing in front of the mirror, carefully applying mascara. I stand behind her, watching the soft movements of her hands. She doesn’t notice me at first, until—

“Not you again!” she exclaims, nearly dropping the mascara wand. “You scared me to death! My hologram self from the future, trying to remind me to appreciate myself more.” She rolls her eyes. “Great. I have to write an essay about this. Bet I’ll get an A, though.”

“Sure, you will,” I reply. “What do you want to know? The future has some crazy things waiting for you.”

Her eyes widen with curiosity. “Like what?”

I glance at her wrist. There, tied around it, is the same colored yarn bracelet that my younger self made.

“Well, for one, everyone will have a cell phone and the net. You’ll be able to talk to people on the street, and you can even reconnect with old friends on Facebook. You can share pictures on Instagram, videos on TikTok, and share your thoughts on Twitter. There will even be apps to help you find a date.”

Her face contorts. “What? That’s silly!”

I laugh. “Tell me about it. Some days, I miss the old times too.”

She raises an eyebrow. “And you can come to the past as a hologram. That’s insane.”

I nod, a soft chuckle escaping me. “I know, right? And I haven’t even told you about AI.”

Before I can say anything more, I hear her voice fade as I start to disappear. “Wait! What’s AI?”

I look at my reflection in the mirror, older now, with grey at my temples. I thought about answering, but the moment passes. I glance at my flesh and blood back in the café. I swipe my visa again for my third and last visit of the day.

2000

I find myself in a hospital room with my twenty-seven-year-old self. She has just undergone an operation for endometriosis on her right ovary, and she’s sleeping soundly. I approach quietly, whispering:

“You don’t have to worry. You will give birth to two wonderful girls soon!”

Her eyes snap open in shock. She looks around the room and then sees me.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, confused and groggy from the painkillers.

“I just came to visit you,” I say gently. “I know you’re in a lot of pain right now, and you’re convinced you’ll never have children, but I can reassure you—that’s not true.”

“Who are you?” she asks, her voice trembling.

“I’m a dream if you will. A dream from the future you need to remember.”

“Can you give me some water?” she asks, her voice weak.

I hand her a glass of water. As she takes it, I notice the bracelet around her wrist—the same one my younger self made, now worn and faded, but still shining with its original colors.

“In the future,” I add, “there will be robotic surgeries. You won’t have to endure this kind of pain from open surgery.”

She swallows the water and looks at me, confused. “What are you talking about?”

“Do you want to see your children?” I ask. “I have thousands of photos of them on my phone.” But as I speak, I remember the rules. It’s not allowed to show future photos of one’s past self. So, I vanish.

2025

Back in the café. That’s it for today. It’s always the same feeling—like meeting a very close friend after a long time. I wonder: If I had known back then what the future would be, how would my life have been different?

I sit next to a woman around my age. She’s quietly crying.

“Are you okay?” I ask. “Would you like to have a coffee with me? I really need to have a coffee with somebody.”

She nods, and we walk to the only table in the café that seats two. She begins to tell me about how she met her parents, who passed away years ago. As I raise my hand to order, my sleeve falls back, and the colored bracelet appears—nearly disintegrated from time, but the colors are still bright.