By David Ling

I remember the day when I first started dreaming. That was the day I let my hopes consume me, when I started willing wishes into truth. I’m sure you remember it too, but perhaps you don’t think about it as much as I do. 

It was a hot afternoon; like all days in the middle of summer, the humid air clung to my skin and drained me of my spirits. I was alone when I heard a faint knock on the door—soft and rapid, like hail amidst a midnight storm. I crept the door open, puzzled and beleaguered. I wasn’t expecting visitors. But when I saw you, with your hair dancing in the breeze and a smile brighter than the sun, I thought that I could never feel more alive. 

You held up a small tray, presenting me with a small, circular cake. The frosting was white, smoothed over like fresh snow on bare, frozen fields. I swung the door open, beckoning you inside. Any words that I wanted to say were lost in a frantic stammer of greetings. 

“You didn’t think that I’d forget, did you? Here,” you said, handing me a colorful waxed candle. 

“Yeah, I… Thanks for coming,” I muttered finally. You shook your head, as if you were chastising a child. 

“Were you even gonna tell me it was your birthday? If I didn’t show up here, I mean.” “I don’t know,” I shrugged. I probably wouldn’t have. It didn’t seem too important at the time. 

“Good thing I like you enough to remember then,” you laughed. “Anyways, I wasn’t sure what to give you as a gift, so…”

You placed a penny in my hand. It seemed unnaturally polished, glimmering with an odd sheen. 

“It’s a lucky penny. Always lands on heads if you toss it,” you explained in what seemed to be a joking manner. 

“Maybe one day we can put that to the test,” I said, pocketing the coin. 

You smirked at my remark, but I didn’t know why. At the time, I thought it was just an ordinary penny. 

You placed the cake on the maplewood countertop, gesturing for me to insert the candle. I did so meticulously, trying not to mess up something so trivial—but it ended up strangely uncentered regardless. You pretended not to notice. 

“I think I have matches around here somewhere. Maybe a lighter or something,” I pondered aloud. 

“I brought some,” you said as you pulled out a small matchbox, much to my disbelief. “Who just carries around matches?” 

“I figured you might not have any. Unless you’d prefer to search around for half an hour.” I scoffed, but your laugh was too infectious. 

“Thanks,” I murmured again, striking a match against the phosphorus. 

We sat there for a while, watching the flames dance atop that pillar of age. I fell silent, mesmerized by the soft glow, like golden embers in a crackling hearth. 

“Well? Make a wish, birthday boy.” 

“Huh? Oh, right. I think I got one,” I replied.

I didn’t really have a wish; but I thought of one hastily, and I’ve been unable to escape it ever since. Once I blew out that candle, smothering its fiery tempest, I felt confined to that dream. But it was a good dream—a familiar dream, one that captivated my thoughts. 

You noticed the faint smile tugging at my lips as my wish burned itself into my mind. “Look at you, all giddy. What’d you wish for?” you asked once I plucked the toasted candle from the cake. 

“You know I can’t tell you,” I chuckled. “Or else it won’t come true.” 

I drummed my knuckles on top of the hard maple, just to make sure. I really did want that wish to come true. 

“Yeah, yeah… ‘Course you can’t… Well, if you ever do want to tell me, we can go to that old wishing well in the woods. We used to make all sorts of wishes there,” you said in reminiscence. I didn’t think too much of it then. In the past, we went in the woods all the time, digging up old coins around the well. I think that’s where we became infatuated with the idea of wishes—of willing dreams into reality. I don’t know if either of us ever truly believed in them, though. 

I don’t quite remember what happened afterwards, but a familiar feeling has always persisted since then. My eyes kept drifting, stealing glances at you whilst my heart fluttered. My mouth started feeling dry, but even then I don’t think it was because of the cake. 

I wanted to tell you. It’s not like wishes were real. But I was haunted by delusion, consumed by superstition that I convinced myself was reality, just to have some hope. I wanted to tell you, and yet I felt that I couldn’t. 

I thought that maybe one day we really could go back to that wishing well in the woods, like we were young and gullible; but I doubted that you were being serious.

We never found much in that wishing well anyway. 

# 

I remember when you found me outside on the patio, staring at the sky. I jumped when I heard your voice, ruminating under the dimming clouds of dusk; but I felt strangely relieved when you popped up beside me. 

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” you said wearily. “Nobody seemed to know where you were. What’re you doing out here anyway? Everyone else is still inside.” I wasn’t sure how to answer. I didn’t really know what I was doing, but it felt nice to stand in the breeze. It felt serene to watch the night conquer the sky, like an anxious mind overcast by calm thoughts. The orange blended with the purple and faded to black, the sparse flecks of blue washed away by the ensuing darkness. 

“I dunno. I just… It’s quiet here. Quieter, at least, without all the music they’re playing inside. And uh… the sky looks nice too,” I stammered. 

But I liked your stifled laugh more than I ever did the quiet. Your voice was a welcome interruption, a melody that sounded better than any silence ever could. 

“Mmhm. Well, I’ve got something for you.” 

I looked down at your hands, clasped together like a concealing cloak around the thin object between your palms. 

“What is it?” I asked, though I had a pretty good idea. Your hands hardly covered the entire thing. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help but smile when you revealed it gleefully.

“See? It’s perfectly symmetrical,” you exclaimed as you uncovered the wishbone lying in your palm. It was a small yet sizable thing. 

“What, you want us to break it right now? Out here?” It was a stupid question, really. I couldn’t think of anything else to do with it. 

“Yep. Whoever gets the bigger piece has their wish granted, y’know. Now come on, it’s getting chilly.” 

You held the furcula up between our noses, waiting for me to grab one end. “Wait,” you said with a cheeky smile. “I want that end, actually.” 

I rolled my eyes, matching your laugh as you turned the bone around. 

“Ready?” 

“Yeah,” I replied, pinching one side with two of my fingers. 

“Now close your eyes and make a wish. On three, okay?” 

You squeezed your eyes shut, but for some reason I couldn’t. I didn’t need to think of a wish. I stared ahead, through the thin veil that was the wishbone, as if emblazoning my wish upon my mind. 

“One… two… three!” 

I gently pulled on my end, ardently surprised when it carried the fulcrum of the bone with it. You opened your eyes once you heard the crack, quickly pouting in mocking petulance. “Lucky you. Lemme guess, you can’t tell me what you wished for again?” I shook my head with a sly grin. 

“Obviously not. Would you tell me what you wished for if you got the bigger piece?” You shrugged, starting back towards the house.

”Who knows? Maybe one day we can trade wishes,” you chuckled, gesturing toward the door. “But let’s go back inside. You can see the stars every night—plus, you’ve been standing out here alone for long enough.” 

I conceded, following you back with my end of the furcula clenched tightly in my hand. 

I never believed in wishes, but I found myself hoping they were real. I found myself strangely elated knowing that there was a superstitious possibility that my dreams weren’t just fiction meant to entertain my mind—and I held onto that elatedness, that superstitious possibility, because now I wanted to believe that they could come true. It was silly to think that way, and I knew it—but I couldn’t stop clinging onto the hope that there was a divine fate that heard my dreams. I knew wishes weren’t real, but I pretended like they were. 

I knocked my hands on the wooden door as we stepped inside—just to be safe. # 

I remember when we drove out of the city, skimming by horizonless pastures and great fields of gold, until the bronze sky forged itself into a bleak canvas of obsidian flecked with silver stars. You didn’t tell me where we were going—or even why, for that matter. But I didn’t care. I made an impulsive decision when you asked me to join you, and I’m glad I didn’t think too much about it. You told me it was a surprise, and that was enough for me. 

We stopped beside a barren, rocky road, where nature surged to reclaim its unfettered domain. Great prairies enveloped us under a fragmented sky, like heavens sundered amidst the

night, scattering spare streaks of light above us. You hauled two large blankets up the steep mound beside where we stopped, tossing one to me once we crested the hill. The dry, untamed grass crunched beneath our feet, tearing the silence in harmony with our frosted breaths. Before us, commanding an expanse of razed wilderness, stood a singular tower of leaf-laden wood and protruding brush—a monolith of life rooted unto the earth in eternal solitude. You pointed at the thick trunk of the tree in the distance excitedly. 

“Come on. It’s the perfect spot,” you said before darting off. 

“Perfect spot for what? What’re we doing this far away from home at night?” I was bewildered, asking a question that I ought to have answered long before we made it where we did. 

I don’t know if you even heard my question. You were halfway to the tree by the time I followed with a fraction of your enthusiasm. 

You spread your blanket flat against the uneven terrain, setting refuge beneath a sturdy branch. I glanced up from where you sat on the blanket, staring at the shimmering stars in an ocean of black—greeted by the night and its crown. 

“We’re stargazing! You told me you always wanted to go stargazing somewhere with clear skies,” you exclaimed. 

I don’t remember ever telling you that I wanted to go stargazing—I don’t remember ever even thinking that I wanted to. But at that moment, I never wanted to do anything more. I sat beside you, draping the spare blanket across our legs. The chilled midnight air stung against our skin, evaporating our breaths in bouts of fog. You looked up at the sky, pointing at something indiscernible. I could hardly make out your words above the hum of droning cicadas.

“Do you see anything? It’s always clear out here, away from all the lights… but I can’t tell much apart.” 

“All the stars do look pretty much the same,” I agreed. 

But it was beautiful nonetheless. The stars, radiant shimmers of a crying sky, bled against a cosmic canvas of empyrean purple and blue. The sky tore itself asunder like a riptide through the veiled fabric of the universe, painting the sky in flawless shades. It was perfect, a galaxy unkempt and untamed yet heavenly still. 

Suddenly, your hand shot up again. 

“Look! Do you see that?” 

I craned my neck, trying to follow your finger. 

“See what? That star up there? The really bright one?” I joked, unsure what you were pointing at. 

“No, stupid,” you said with a grin. 

You grabbed my wrist, guiding my hand towards what you saw. It didn’t help at all. You sighed, dropping my limp arm. 

“There’s a shooting star up there. Or something that looks like one, at least.” I strained my eyes, searching for something that resembled the bright trails of white that detailed shooting stars in photographs. My gaze rested upon a faint streak of silver, snaking its way through the cosmos before the stage of cloaked stars. I think you were able to tell once I spotted it. I felt your fingers brush over mine, our hands lying dormant beside us. “Have you made a wish yet?”

I nodded when you turned towards me, expecting your question. Your eyes drooped down towards me, a hushed whisper escaping your parted lips. I think that was the first time I heard the nervous quiver in your voice. 

“I… Do you wanna trade wishes? If you tell me yours, I’ll… tell you mine.” I froze. I wanted to tell you. I wanted so much to tell you. But I was scared, and with your eyes piercing through my soul, demanding an answer, I felt urged to find refuge in uncertainty. “I think we should wait. Eventually they’ll both come true, I’m sure of it. I’ll tell you my wish one day, I promise.” My words stained my mouth with an ethereal tinge of baleful lies. I wasn’t sure of anything. 

“Yeah… one day,” you chuckled, though even I could tell your facade from your real smile. My heart sank, watching your head lull—watching your spirited visage break away. I wanted to fix things. I wanted to tell you the truth, to reveal everything I had vaulted away. But I thought it was too late, and I swallowed my words alongside my penance. 

Your silence was heavy. It burdened me with fears of the unknown, with the threat of unkept promises. I wanted to take it all back, to see your smile again, and yet I drowned in the silence. 

I didn’t care if shooting stars weren’t real stars, because they still set the sky ablaze. I didn’t care if I didn’t believe in wishes, because I made a wish anyway. 

My hand knocked gently against the bare wooden bark—just in case. 

…

I remember when I laid in bed awake, all those sleepless nights until now. I was infected with a cryptic restlessness, my breaths heavy and shallow. The air was cold—empty, like a tomb of dispirited dreams. I rolled over for the third time since shutting my eyes; they wouldn’t stay closed, an incessant need to check the time feeding my sleepless consciousness. 11:11 P.M. 

I stared at the pale green illuminations in the dark, an unwelcome reminder of my timeless discontent. I could hear fate mocking me, purging me of faith. 

“Go on. Make a wish.” But you weren’t there to tell me. 

“What did you wish for?” But you weren’t there to see me shrug in denial. “Let’s trade wishes.” But you weren’t there for me to hear your laugh. 

I could only commiserate with my own thoughts; I could only reconcile with my own regrets, though I didn’t find much success. I laid in bed, shattered and broken—a fractured mountain eroded by rivers of salt and sorrow, polluted by banks of guilt and contrition. I wished to see your face. I wished to hear your voice. I wished to feel your hands in mine. But as the minutes ticked by and dawn stole away the night, those wishes never came true. None of them ever did, dragged unto a tenuous grave of dead and decaying stars, their ambitions dimmed and devoid of light. 

I shifted around uncomfortably. My pillow was too warm. My clothes were too itchy. The outside was too quiet, and my mind was too loud. My thoughts were so cluttered, and yet I felt so empty. I sat up, staring into the darkness with a despondent glare. I wanted to tell you. 

I swiped the old coin from my nightstand, smoothing the dust off with my thumb. Even after all this time, I made sure not to forget. Even after all those sleepless nights, I wasn’t even tired.

I needed to tell you. 

# 

My feet pounded the pavement as my heart drummed against my skull. Mangled leaves littered the earth, cast from their naked trees and hollow woods under the enchanting guise of autumn. The sky was grey, an obscuring fog eclipsing the stars of a dying night. The chilling air rejuvenated my resolve, flooding my lungs with cold, shallow breaths. I could still feel your hair brushing over my arm, soft and gentle like the breeze; and so I ran, off the fettered road, into the world of bleeding dreams. 

The twittering songs of morning birds announced the coronation of dawn, guiding the sun unto its throne in the sky. Sparse rays of amber penetrated the overcast skies, painting the world in splashes of bronze and scarlet. I could still hear your voice, carried by the wind; and so I ran, until the world fell away and I was young again, until the woods fell silent and all I could hear was you. 

I never felt quite as free as when I found myself surrounded by a labyrinth of bare trunks and scattered foliage. I was lost, and yet I knew exactly where you were. 

I wasn’t asleep, and yet I was dreaming all the same. 

#

I hope I’ll remember this day, like I do all the rest. 

The muddy trail is no more, conquered by overgrown shrubs and rotting wood; my feet sludge through the masses of thick brush, kicking up decaying leaves and soil, wonderfully adrift. I knew these trees, stripped bare of lush fronds; I knew these skies, always shifting on the edge of grey and gold; I knew these graves by the well, all the dreams buried and entombed within them. 

Not much remains of the old wishing well. The wood above had long crumbled away, lost to the chasm below in wisps of ash. Mounds of brown leaves blanket the undisturbed soil beside the well, hiding our history—all those coins, all those treasures seeded in the earth, awaiting their turn to sprout. They waited for us to return, waited for us to discover them once again; they waited for us to bestow upon them new wishes, new hopes, new ambitions. They waited, and now I’m here—waiting for you, waiting for those wishes to come true. 

My fingers dance atop the stone foundation of the well, eternally unchanged. There isn’t much to be found inside the well anymore. There’s still a few coins, rusted and smeared with wet dirt, hiding under splinters of spoiled wood. We had snatched the rest, scattering them beside the well, molding them into the ground with our hands—growing them, so that one day we too could cast our wishes into the well. I don’t know if we’ll ever find them again. 

I slump against the side of the well, taking out the coin I had swiped from my bedside table. It still had that unnatural luster, that odd, glimmering sheen. I chuckle to myself, flipping it over in my hands. When you gave it to me, it wasn’t just an ordinary penny. It really was lucky; both sides of it were the exact same, imprinted with the same stamp.

The cold, damp stone presses into my neck. I don’t like the uncertainty anymore; I don’t like the running, the lying, the fear. No more silent hopes. No more shrugging in denial. No more knocking on wood. 

Because I had a wish. It was always in front of me, always beside me, always asking me what it was. 

I toss the coin behind me. It rings against the inside of the wall, resonating with the words lumped in my throat. I already know which side it landed on; I already know my wish; because it hasn’t changed, and I no longer find solace in the unknown. 

Because no matter how much sugar was in that cake, nothing was sweeter than you. Because no matter how that wishbone broke, it was my heart that splintered. Because no matter how bright the stars shimmer, no matter how many die and fall, no 

matter how beautiful the world is in all its hues of amber and violet against a porcelain sky—I would still rather be lost with you, finding the stars in your eyes. 

I’m here, by that old wishing well in the woods, because I want to tell you. I’m here, under an overcast sky and slumbering stars, because I can look at the stars whenever. I’m here, among a world of uncultivated wonder, because I know that one day those wishes will come true. To me, they’re not just fleeting memories. 

To me, it’s not just another bleeding dream. 

Because I’m still here, with that wish on my tongue. 

Because I’m here, by that old wishing well in the woods. 

And I’m still waiting.

–

David Ling is a sixteen-year-old high school student currently residing in Ohio. In addition to writing, he enjoys sleeping and playing games with his friends when not busy with schoolwork and extracurriculars.