we will never be this young again
on the privilege of growing up together
We’ll never be this young again, and that’s what keeps us moving.
I am not sure if we are motivated by the fear of letting this moment go to waste, or by the gratitude of simply existing in this moment together. Maybe it’s a mixture of both, but regardless, the acceptance of this fact — we will never be this young again — keeps us moving.
It has been a long, sleep-deprived day of running all over central London with my oldest childhood friend, and the only reason we are not already tucked into bed is because we made an 11:00 PM reservation for this bar weeks ago, and we both know we would one day look back and regret skipping out on going just because we were tired in the moment.
“We can sleep as soon as we get back,” I say, in an attempt to convince us both that our sleepless bodies will be replenished later. “And we’ll sleep in later tomorrow.” We are slow-moving and sluggish, but the city is waiting, and we would be foolish to ignore it.
“Do we still wear our heels?,” she questions, rummaging through her suitcase and the clothes she brought. We both packed a pair of fancier heels specifically for this night out, although our legs and bodies are screaming at us now as a result of the miles we trekked today. “I think so. We’ll never be this young in London on a Friday night again.”
Within the next half hour we are in our dresses and chunky heels, clattering across the cobblestone streets of Covent Garden. I take the deepest breath I have been able to muster in months. The air is crisp but not cold for mid-April. My hair has curled naturally here in a way it does not at home. My skin glows just a bit more. I stand just a little straighter.
We each order one mocktail at the bar since it is all our exhausted bodies can handle. We make small talk with the local mother and daughter seated next to us, and before they leave for the night, the mother extends some parting advice, reminding me to “never stop taking my pictures.” She is referencing the 35mm disposable film camera I carry around with me — I explained to her my ongoing tradition of using one camera a month, and then developing all the film each year on my birthday. The photos serve as a year in rewind; a yearly recap. The mother and daughter duo leave, and I think about how I am 28 tonight but I will see the photos taken tonight on my 29th birthday. Another stark reminder that we will never be this young again, ever.
We walk back to our hotel, arm in arm, when my friend begins to record us walking down the quiet streets of Soho. “We’re okay,” she is saying to the camera, giggling as she points the phone towards me, still recording.
“Who are you telling we’re okay? Who are you confirming safety with?” I am laughing just as hard, confused but wondering if she is planning to send this video to her husband or parents back in New York to let them know our first full day in London was a success.
“I’m talking to our future selves. Telling them they don’t need to worry about us. We’re okay.”
I join in, so content in this moment I could cry, agreeing. “We’re more than okay.”
We are, and we will be. It’s a full moon, because of course it is, on this magical night. We giggle our way into the hotel and up to our seventh floor room. We immediately pluck off our heels. I am glad we wore them, I am thinking, though I can’t remember if I actually speak the words aloud. We finally give our bodies the physical rest they need, feeling emotionally fulfilled in a way neither of us can articulate.
The remainder of the weekend is spent sunbathing in parks and flopping down in the sunshine alongside our books and journals and mini cupcakes and matcha lemonades. I read and she journals in a comfortable silence. We admire the groups of friends and families lounging near us, content to be assimilating into this city, as if this is how we spend every Saturday here in this park. We are rolling in the grass and laughing, truly laughing, in a way that is so visceral it hurts. We are healing parts of ourselves we maybe didn’t even know were wounded.
My thoughts mindlessly drift to the 19 and 20 and 21 and 26-year old versions of me that laid in these same London parks and bathed in this same London sun throughout the years. I momentarily miss those girls until I see them in my reflection staring back at me when I pick up my phone to check the time. How silly of me to forget these past versions of myself are always with me.
We may never be as young as we are right now, but I put my phone down and look up to see my friend still scribbling words into the moleskin journal I gifted her for her 29th birthday a few weeks ago, and the thought that we will never be this young again no longer feels as intimidating as it once did.
It is a privilege to be 28 with her right now in Regent’s Park. It was a privilege to be 19 and 20 and 21 and 26 with her as well, and it will be a privilege to have her by my side when the word “young” is no longer an adjective used to describe us.
But for now, for tonight, we’ll lace up our heels and shuffle along the cobblestone arm in arm again. I’ll do this for as long as she’ll let me.
Until next time!
XO, Daelyn <3
this was so beautifully written, both in its concept and emotion, as well as in its prose and description. felt so vivid like I was with you <3