Henry had never been good at goodbyes. He didn’t cry at his mother’s funeral. When his best friend moved across the country, he sent a two-line text. And when his relationship ended last winter, he poured himself another glass of whiskey and swore he was fine. It seemed like he was prepared for almost any consequences.
But he wasn’t.
Every night he sat alone in his tiny apartment, scrolling through old photos, whispering silent what-ifs to the walls. And every night, he wished for one thing: just one more chance.
On his thirtieth birthday, drunk and reckless, he muttered into the darkness,
“If anyone out there’s listening—God, angel, devil, whatever—I don’t care. Give me one wish. Just one. I want her back. I’ll do anything.”
The next morning, his phone buzzed.
Her name lit up the screen.
At first, he thought it was some cruel glitch. But no—it was her. Laughing like old times. Asking if he wanted to meet. Saying she’d been thinking about him too.
It was everything he had begged for.
The first weeks felt like magic. They walked the same streets, held hands like they used to, kissed in the same cafes. He swore he could feel the universe bending to his will.
But then, the cracks appeared.
She would forget things—small things at first. His favorite song. The way he hated onions in his food. Then bigger things—memories they had shared, promises they had made. Sometimes, when she looked at him, there was a flicker of emptiness in her eyes, as if a stranger had slipped into her skin.
One night, he woke to find her standing by the window, whispering to the glass.
“They said I don’t belong here,” she murmured. “They said I’m borrowed.”
Chills ran through him.
He grabbed her shoulders. “Who said that? What are you talking about?”
She blinked, confused, then smiled like nothing had happened. “You’re imagining things.”
But he couldn’t shake the dread. He had asked for her back… but what if this wasn’t her?
The final straw came weeks later. They were arguing—about something stupid, as always. She slammed her fist on the table, and for a split second, her voice wasn’t hers. It was layered, dozens of voices in one, echoing through the room.
He stumbled back.
Her eyes softened. “You wished for me. So here I am. But wishes have a price, Henry. You should’ve let me go.”
And then she was gone. Not walked out the door, not “blocked-his-number.” Just—gone.
He sat alone in the silence, the wish still echoing in his chest. For the first time, he understood the weight of his own words.
Sometimes, the cruelest thing you can do is ask the universe to give you what you’re not ready to lose.
