If my 10-year-old self walked into my room today, he would stare at me like I failed all his dreams.

He’d probably ask:

“Why aren’t you a superhero yet?”

And I’d respond:

“Bro… the only thing I lift these days is stress.”

We would sit on the floor, and he would complain about how I stopped drawing, how I forgot to play, how I don’t run anymore.

I’d tell him about EMIs, responsibilities, deadlines…
He wouldn’t understand any of it.

Then he’d ask a question I’m scared of:

“Are you happy?”

Silence.

Because happiness today feels like Wi-Fi —
Sometimes full bars, sometimes buffering.

But after thinking, I would tell him:

“Yes… not always. But I’m learning.”

My childhood self would smile and say:

“Good. Just don’t forget to be me sometimes.”

And then he would vanish.
Leaving me with one message:

Growing up doesn’t mean letting go.
It means carrying your younger self with you.