The girl who wished on a shooting star
A star darts past my eyes across the glittery sky, swaying like an ocean wave splashing on my body, bathing me in its gaze.
11 pm, a day before my grandmother’s funeral on a misty November night of 2015 I saw a shooting star.
Sitting on the rooftop of my granddad’s country home, old trees blanketing around me, and my eyes stuck on the brightest star I had ever seen, I was on the phone with the person I called ‘love’. I was sixteen and for the first time, I saw a shooting star.
The wishes come true, don’t they? Moon light created shadows of trees around me. I saw his eyes in the shadows of those guava leaves, it was a metaphor. He was there, on the phone, in the leaves, around me. And he said from the other side, “She’ll shine at you from the sky.” I lied on my back, and stared at the brightest star I could point out. “Maybe” I thought. And that is when, I saw a shooting star.
Maybe, the wishes do come true. March of 2016 and my waist length hair were cut down to shreds. The scissors clipped past through my hair like how the star that day waved past the horizon, smooth and sullen. You need to destroy, in order to create. Maybe the destroyed soul can now be created. Maybe another star took birth that day. I should have wished upon a baby star. But I wished on a dying on, because I saw a shooting star.
A night in the May of 2015, taking a stroll a park at twilight with the person who claimed himself to be my love, with the person I used my shooting star wish on. Wasted. Two people, two smiling faces, and a crying heart. My feet want to run away, as fast as that star I saw on the eve of my grandmother’s funeral, as fast as the scissors that chopped off my hair, as fast as the words coming out of his mouth, as fast as my heart is breaking, but I stay. Maybe, wishes do come true, because in November last year, I saw a shooting star.
On a humid afternoon in the month of July, I’m standing on the rooftop of my grandfather’s old country home, and tears stroll down my face like two smiling faces and a crying heart, taking a stroll in a park. The sun burns hard, not harder than the organ beating inside my chest, screaming to escape the cage, but it is not a shooting star, it cannot fly away. It can only beat, pretend to play music, when it is actually writing an elegy for itself. The trees still create shadows around me, and his eyes look like those shadows. This time, deeper, darker, deadlier. And I run towards the edge of the roof, like I should have on that summer night, the brick boundary stops me from falling off, and it is not just the brick walls. It is a star that I wished upon eight months ago, because I saw a shooting star.
I stare out of the window of my apartment, hoping to see another shooting star, not to wish upon, to ask questions. “Do you really grant wishes?” Because I’ve been holding onto some wishes for far too long, and they don’t seem to be coming true. All I can in the sky is a winter’s moon, crescent, and faded on the edges. It was a metaphor. It was him, sharp enough to make me bleed, misty enough to leave me stranded. There are no stars in the sky tonight. Maybe, wishes don’t come true. December of 2016, one year, one month later, after crossing an ocean of tears, running too slow to be far away enough from tree shadows, I am staring at the sky again, waiting for the answers to the questions that were graved in my bones when I saw a shooting star.
One year, three months, 28 days later, I get my answer. Shooting stars are not beautiful, they are dying. The person I called love was gone. He ran away faster than the shooting star. And now I mourn whenever I see a shooting star.