The universe knew her best when she was a kid. The whispered secrets to the moon, wishes woven into the dandelions by the wind, closed eyes at 11:11 like hope is in the body as naturally as breathing. Blowing out the birthday candles felt less like a tradition and more like trust, as if somewhere above her, they paused for a second to write down her wishes.
At five she wished for a longer playtime, evening stretched wide enough that the sky would be untouched by darkness.
At seven she wished for toys that overflowed her baskets and spilled across the bedroom floor.
At ten she wished for flowers, big bouquets that’s wrapped in paper thick enough to crinkle loudly when held against her chest.
At thirteen, the wishes became harder to hold. The wishes turned invisible and harder to distinguish. No longer could she point to shop windows or tie it neatly with a pink ribbon.
They became a quiet map everyone seemed to receive but her.
Somewhere along the way, the hydrogen and helium stopped feeling as powerful and all-knowing as they once had. The stars still burned above her exactly the same, yet her wishes no longer seemed to reach them. Instead, they felt swallowed whole by something vast and unseen, collapsing inward like a black hole, consuming everything placed into it, yet somehow remaining empty all the same.
She learned quickly that flowers were never really about flowers. They were about being chosen. About walking into a room carrying soft, fragrant proof that somebody had thought of you before you arrived, quiet enough to hold close to your chest, yet loud enough for everybody else to witness too.
That night she looked upwards again
Towards the moon that had carried her childhood secrets so faithfully. She whispered once more to the jewelleries scattered across the sky, the same way she once had as a little girl openly, shamelessly, with the child-like kind of faith that never needed proof before believing something was listening. Only this time, the words felt less like wanting and more like surrendering, as if somewhere above her, something had stayed awake through the night simply to hear her speak.
The door knocked
When she opened it, crimson petals and crinkled papers filled her arms, soft proof of somewhere and somehow she had been thought of before she arrived.
And the universe smiled upon her too.
Writer – Jocosa Lin
Editor – Jessie Lin
Artist – Charlotte Zhao
–June 2026–
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