11:11, and once again the only thing on my mind is your slow smile across a crowded room.
Fresh today · Monday, 22 June
New Wishes
A handful of wishes pulled from the cabinet this morning. Pick one up — copy, save it to your pinboard, or send it on.
Every 11:11 I waste my wish on you, which doesn't feel wasted at all when I'm honest about it.
I caught the clock at the right moment and asked, very politely, that you stay exactly as you are.
11:11 came and went and my wish hasn't changed in a year — only deepened, sharpened, settled.
Some people wish for fortune; I just wish for you to keep texting me back the way you do.
It's 11:11 and I'm not pretending anymore — every wish has your name baked into it.
↑ pick one up
Browse by occasion
What are we writing today?
Cabinets sorted by occasion. Open one — pages are arranged by warmth, not algorithm.
- Anniversary
- Baby
- Belated
- Best
- Birthday
- Boy
- Boyfriend
- Christian
- Christmas
- Congratulation
- Diwali
- Easter
- Eid Mubarak
- Engagement
- Farewell
- Fathers Day
- Friendship
- Funny
- Get Well
- Girl
- Girlfriend
- Good Morning
- Good Night
- Graduation
- Hanukkah
- Heart Touching
- Holiday
- Invitation
- Job
- Love
- Miss You
- Mothers Day
- New Year
- Recovery
- Retirement
- Romantic
- Thank You
- Thanksgiving
- Wedding
- Well
- Women's Day
- Sympathy
- Valentine's Day
- Halloween
- Veterans Day
More from today
Twice today the clock will whisper your name back to me, and I'll let it.
11:11 isn't superstition; it's a quiet pause where I remember exactly who I'm choosing.
I made the wish, blew the candle, threw the coin, and you — somehow you keep being the answer.
11:11 — please let him be having the same thought, on the same minute, in some other room.
I don't know if wishes work, but yours seems to be slowly coming true around me.
It's 11:11 and I'm asking the universe for nothing fancy — just more ordinary days with you in them.
Twice a day the numbers line up and remind me how aligned you and I already are.
11:11 — and my wish is still you, still soft, still stubborn, still the only one I make.
Some wishes I shout; this one I just close my eyes and breathe out toward you.
11:11 found me on the bus and I made the same quiet wish I've been making since we met.
I don't tell you my 11:11 wishes — but you're in every single one, in case that helps.
Two minutes a day I get to be honest with the universe, and both of them belong to you.
11:11 — please keep us close, please keep us kind, please keep us choosing each other.
Every wish, every coin, every candle — your name shows up before I even mean to write it.
It's 11:11 and I'm asking for nothing more than what we already have, just for a longer time.
I wished on the clock again last night. You answered the phone three minutes later. Coincidence?
11:11 is the small ceremony I do alone, on your behalf, twice a day, without telling you.
Some wishes are about who you'll become; mine is about staying exactly where I am — with you.
11:11 — same number, same wish, same hope. The universe must know my voice by now.