Wishes at 11:11
Even after all this time, you still wish for him every time 11:11 comes around
A/N: Tried to make it make sense, so please tell me if it doesn't and i'll try to rewrite it 🙏🏻
Tags: Slight angst/no comfort, ex!Hyunjin, gn!reader, let me know if I missed anything
Song: Eleven Eleven - Conan Gray
It’s 11:11 again.
The glowing numbers blink on your phone screen, mocking you with their perfect symmetry. You tell yourself not to look. Not to wish. Not this time. But your thumb hesitates over the lock screen anyway, like muscle memory—like your body still remembers what your heart is trying so hard to forget.
But it's almost a habit now. Every time you see double digits, you close your eyes to make your wish, and before you can stop yourself, his name comes to mind.
It always does.
You hadn’t spoken in months—not since that night. The one with the rain, and the words that fell harder than the storm outside. The one that made you realize loving doesn’t always mean staying.
The one where Hyunjin’s promise of forever ended much sooner than expected.
And yet, every night since, you’ve found yourself glancing at the clock, waiting for those four numbers to line up like the universe was giving you one last chance to ask for him back.
Tonight, though, something feels different. Maybe it’s the ache that’s quieter than usual. Maybe it’s the way the city lights blur through your window like they’re trying to erase his face.
But you close your eyes, clasp your hands together, and whisper his name under your breath, with a quiet plea of,
“I wish I could love you one more time.”
And then, like a cruel trick of your mind, you see it—
that memory that refuses to fade.
---
You remember the first time he made you do it, and how ridiculous it seemed to you.
You’d laughed at him for it, sitting cross-legged on the floor of his messy room, the smell of paint still clinging to his hoodie.
“You actually do that? Make a wish at 11:11?”
He’d looked up from his sketchbook, lips curling into that boyish grin that made your chest feel too small for your heart.
“Of course,” he said, pretending to be offended. “You’re supposed to! It’s like—universal law.”
You’d rolled your eyes, and that’s when he grabbed your hands suddenly, his fingers warm and slightly stained with blue paint.
"C'mon, do it with me,” he’d said, grinning so wide it was almost stupid.
You’d tried to pull away, giggling, but he only held tighter.
“No, seriously. Close your eyes. That’s how it works.”
His voice had softened then, a little lower, a little steadier.
“Come on. Just trust me.”
So you did.
His thumbs brushed against your knuckles, slow and gentle. You could feel him smiling even before he spoke.
"Okay,” he’d whispered. “I wish for us to be together, grow old, and love each other. Forever.”
You’d laughed at how serious he sounded, eyes still closed.
"Isn’t the whole thing to not say it aloud, or it won’t come true?” you’d teased, opening one eye.
He’d chuckled, brushing your hair from your face.
“Maybe it won’t work now,” he said, half joking, half something else. “But if it doesn’t, it just means I’ll have to wish harder next time.”
And he did.
Every night at 11:11, he’d make you do it again.
And again.
And again.
Until one day, he stopped.
---
You open your eyes. The numbers on the screen flicker and fade—11:12.
Too late. Wish over.
You take a deep breath, setting your phone aside. The silence of your apartment hums in your ears, louder than it should be. The air feels heavier when you realize how empty the space around you is—how quiet the walls have been since his voice stopped echoing off them.
There’s a photo still on your shelf. One you keep meaning to hide but never do. The one he took of you—laughing, eyes half closed, hand reaching toward the camera. He said it was his favorite. You almost smile, and it hurts that you still can.
Your chest tightens as you reach for your phone again. As if on instinct. As if you’re still tethered to him somehow.
You open your messages. His name sits near the top, untouched, unread since that last blue bubble:
Hyunjin:
Don’t wait for me anymore.
You never replied. You didn’t have the words then. You’re not sure you do now.
Still, your fingers move on their own.
You:
I still wish for you.|
You stare at the text, the little gray words on the white screen, and your throat burns. The cursor blinks. Your heart does too.
You don’t hit send. Not yet. Maybe you never will.
Instead, you turn off your phone and lean back against the window, watching the city lights smear across the glass like constellations out of focus. The world outside keeps moving, unaware that yours stopped months ago.
You close your eyes, just once more, letting the memory of his laughter echo through the silence.
And somewhere deep down, where logic can’t reach and pride can’t silence, you think maybe—just maybe—he’s wishing too.
Because even if he stopped saying it, even if he stopped believing in it—even if he never did, some promises never really leave you.
They just turn into ghosts that visit every night at 11:11.
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