If I had one wish I'd go back to 2010,
when the world felt soft,
when I was eight and love was more than just words.
When his voice wasn’t a memory,
but the sound of home.

I wish I could feel the warmth of his hand again,
though rough but reassuring,
guiding me down paths I didn’t know I’d miss.
Back then, his laughter was thunderous,
shaking the walls of my little world,
a sound that wrapped me in safety,
a sound I ache to hear again.

If I had one wish,
I’d rewrite every moment he wasn’t there.
I’d hold his face and ask,
“Why did you leave me to learn how to fall alone?”
I’d trade the weight of this grown-up heart,
heavy with cracks and disappointments,
for the innocence of a boy—
a boy who believed hugs could fix anything,
a boy who thought bedtime stories held the universe’s secrets.

I’d run barefoot through yesterday,
just to find him waiting at the end,
smiling, clapping—calling my name
like it was the only word that mattered.
I’d trade every dream of the future
just to hear him say,
“I’m proud of you.”

I’d press rewind,
not to fix what broke,
but to feel what was whole.
To find the boy who didn’t yet know
the cruelty of a world
where dreams aren’t always kind,
and fathers sometimes leave.

If I had one wish,
I’d weave the love of a father and son
back into the fabric of my days,
so it wouldn’t unravel the way it did,
leaving threads I still grasp for in the dark.

But wishes are cruel—
they offer hope to a heart already breaking.
They are fragile things, like dandelions in the wind,
drifting into the past—
a place I can only visit in dreams.

Still, if the stars ever listen,
I’d hope to be granted one final wish.
To go back.
I’d stay in 2010.
I’d be eight forever.