I miss how my hands would be clammy when my crush passed by in the hallway, obviously oblivious to my existence on planet Earth.
I miss how I’d devour with the utmost pleasure, a heavenly ice-cream cone with droplets of melted cream running on the side of my arm without a care in the world.
I miss those drinking binges in which I’d come home in a drunken stupor and wake up the next day with not much to show of a hangover than a mild headache.
I miss the feeling of skipping classes because I thought I was smarter than the professor and a day with my girlfriends felt like a boon compared to the bane of listening to an oldie recite Maslow’s law.
But most of all, I miss being 16.
Yes, 16. That age when you think you’re an adult, you behave like one but you’re still a child. That age when you first experience the joy of sexual love, struggle with “fitting in” with the cool kids and your biggest worry is how to get rid of that pus-oozing pimple that makes you look hideous in a selfie.
They say why did we ever stop having sleepovers? Why did we stop eating ice-cream without counting calories? Or why we think a million times before falling in love?
Because, my dear, we had to grow up. We have to earn our pay cheques, we have to make rent, we have to pay for our booze and, one day, we’ll have to pay for our mortgages.
But, silly me, I still enjoy that deliciously sinful ice-cream or pass by my office crush with a sheepish smile on my face.
Because I have to remind myself that I was 16 once and I can be again.