“I wished for a friend.” Quiet. Almost embarrassed.
I paused. Those big blue eyes waiting.
“Me too.”
We stared at each other. Two twelve-year-old girls who just wished for the same thing at the same time.
She grinned so wide I thought her face might split.
We started laughing because wishing on dandelions was definitely something little kids did.
But we weren’t sorry.
“We should be best friends,” she announced. As if she had already decided it. Like the dandelions had made it law. “You can be my dandelion.”
“Your what?”
“My dandelion.” She twisted the flower between her fingers. “My mama says they’re weeds. I think they’re beautiful.” She bent down, plucked one growing through a crack in the pavement. “But look. This one grew through concrete.”
I held the weed between my fingers. Looked at the pavement where dozens more pushed through.
No other weed breaks through concrete like a dandelion.
Alex was watching me. Waiting to see if I understood.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ll be your dandelion.”
She held out her little pinky linking mine with hers.
“Dandelions.”
And I was. Her Dandelion.
That’s the part you need to know first. Before I tell you about my month.
Before I learned that wishing for someone to see you means they see everything. Including the parts you should have hidden.
Because what comes next? It’s going to sound impossible. Like fiction.
But here’s the thing about fiction—it’s written to reflect life. And sometimes, life reflects it right back.
But remember dandelions grow through concrete.
And some wishes—the desperate ones blown into the wind by twelve-year-old girls who just want someone to see them—those don’t just come true.
They cost something.
Look, I know that sounds dramatic. Like something you’d read in a fortune cookie written by someone having a breakdown.
But here’s the thing about wishes that come true: they don’t ask what you’re willing to pay for them.
And right now? I’m starting to think the bill is coming due.
So yeah. Those wishes have teeth.
Welcome to January.
Try to keep up.
