I Didn’t Wish Big

They told me to whisper it under a silver moon— the kind that doesn't flinch at broken voices. So I did. I was tired. Not just in the body, but in the bones, in the places even silence can't reach. I didn’t ask for riches. Not love, not youth, not even time. I asked for something smaller— to feel like myself for a moment, the self before the world asked too much, took too much, left too little. I wished for a breath that didn’t carry weight, a laugh that wasn’t borrowed, a day that didn’t end with apology. The stars didn’t answer. But something shifted— not loud, not bright— just the quiet press of my own hand wrapped around a warm mug, steam rising like forgiveness. And I thought— maybe this is what grace looks like: not the world bending to your will, but the world pausing just long enough for you to breathe in it.