Some wishes are survival.
A lifeline for those in war,
in hunger,
in hands that never chose the labour they carry.
For those taken,
traded,
trapped —
for those hurting behind closed doors,
and those under hospital ceilings,
counting days and drops,
wishing their bodies back to peace.
Their only freedom lives inside a wish.
And for those who left their homes behind,
crossing borders, languages,
learning how to exist in the quiet
after everything familiar is gone.
Pain wears different faces.
Some loud, some invisible.
But pain is still pain.
In that silence,
a wish becomes the fragile rope between you and the dark.
A thin thing you hold when the ground is shaking.
When the room is loud with fear,
a wish is not a fix,
not a guarantee,
just enough to keep breathing.
Some wishes aren’t escape.
They’re survival.
But even survival asks:
if a flicker of light finds its way back —
will you reach for it?