The Same Wish by Bella Velasco

A quiet story about birthdays, grief, and the wishes we repeat

by Bella Velasco

Tip: Play this melody as you read to feel the story unfold​

The time still comes around every single year. The time to make a wish. And every year, I wished for the same thing. The age I was turning or the amount of candles on the cake wasn’t important. I would never hesitate to decide what my wish was. I never changed my mind five seconds before.

While everyone sang and pushed their cameras closer into my face, I already knew my wish -I wish you were still here -.

I first made that wish when I was eight years old. The cake was tilted and made with love, spots of red and white frosting mixed together to make pink. You were supposed to be by my side, joking about how ugly, but yet how perfect it looked. Instead, mom stood there with puffy eyes, trying to figure out how to start recording on her new camera. That was the year that altered my birthdays forever.

After that, the celebrations felt dumb, like there was no point celebrating without you. Everyone just pretended that everything was normal. My friends still came over. My relatives still sent cards. But something was missing, and everyone knew it, even if no one mentioned you. There was a gap left in every room that you were supposed to fill.

Every year, someone would remind me to make a wish - Don’t forget - they said, smiling. As if it was a crime if I did forget to make one. So I never forgot to make my same wish.

When I turned ten, I wished it with all my might, squeezing my eyes shut. When I turned thirteen, I wished it angrily, like maybe the universe owed me something. By the time I turned sixteen, I barely muttered the wish at all, because by then, I had lost all my hope in wishing for something that will never come true.

People didn’t come back, it’s not possible. Although, whenever someone lit the candles and everyone started singing, the words came automatically.

- I wish you were still here -

On my eighteenth birthday, there was no party. No decorations. No relatives flooding our home. Just mom and me at the kitchen table, sharing a small store-bought cake. She got up and searched aggressively through all the kitchen cabinets, until she finally found what she needed. She came back to the table with one candle, and stuck it in the center of the cake - You can still make a wish - she said. I almost laughed.

Eighteen felt too old to still have hope in my impossible wish. Too old to keep knocking on a door that had never opened. But the wish came to me immediately. I wish you were still here. I blew out the candle. Smoke went up into the air and vanished. That night, I had trouble sleeping. The house felt so silent, so peaceful. I stared at the ceiling, counting sheep, when I heard it. Three soft knocks upon my door.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

My heart jumped. It couldn’t be real. - Houses make noises. Old pipes move - I thought -. Memories played tricks on exhausted minds. I told myself all of that as I slowly rose up out of bed, gasping for air. Then I heard my name. Not a yell. Not a whisper. The perfect volume to recognize the voice.

I opened my door, one inch at a time. The hallway light blinked, and for a second, I saw you standing on the opposite side of the hall.

You looked different than in memories and photos. You looked angelic, like you were made of light and old memories instead of flesh and bone. But it was you. The person I’ve been wishing for - You’ve been making the same wish for a long time - you said. My tears made you look foggy - I just wanted you back - I could barely whispered. A gentle smile came across your face - I know, but I never really left -.

The lights stopped flickering. The hallway was empty, you disappeared. The next morning, I felt different. There was a shift in the air. Not terrible. Not perfect either. Just as if weight was taken off my shoulders. I still missed your presence. I always would.

But for the first time, the wish didn’t feel mandatory anymore. I could throw it out, disconnect from the recurring wish.

Next birthday, when someone reminds me to make a wish, I think I’ll wish for something new. Something that keeps me motivated.