Ericka Henriquez

Minutes before midnight, with one hand already clutching the stem of a champagne glass, I grabbed my small bowl of prosecco-soaked grapes and leaned against the balcony, watching the crowds milling below. Twelve perfect, glistening spheres of green and red — smooth skins catching the light like tiny orbs of promise — sat waiting.

With the chatter of strangers buzzing below, I reminded myself that I was here, alone by choice — a decision that felt bold an hour ago but now just felt lonely.

Twelve grapes. Twelve wishes. That was the tradition, right?

I didn’t even know what I wanted to wish for. Or maybe I did, but admitting it felt too raw, too close to acknowledging the many shortcomings of reality. The truth was, I didn’t quite believe in luck anymore. Not after the year I had. Still, I was here, wasn’t I? Grapes in hand, champagne fizzing on my tongue, standing in the middle of a night that practically demanded my hopes to be shouted into the dark abyss.

11:58. 11:59. As fireworks struck the sky, momentarily catching me by surprise, I felt the bowl of grapes almost slip from my grasp. Startled, I fumbled with the first grape before popping it into my mouth. One minute. Twelve grapes. Twelve wishes. I hoped I wouldn’t choke.

Number One

I wish for… I wish for what? My brain scrambled, reaching for something. I wish to be happy without worry. To have courage. Yeah. That seemed like a good place to start. I didn’t want to be afraid to feel things again without flinching. I wanted courage to stop acting like I was fine when I wasn’t. The courage to walk into a Yale dining hall, join a table of strangers and say, “Can I sit here?” without overthinking. I let the wish settle inside me like the first flicker of a flame.

The grape was tart, almost too much, and I winced at the sting as I swallowed. One down. Eleven to go.

Number Two

The light from the fireworks lit up the distant silhouette of the Annapurna range, its peaks bathed in greens and reds. I wish for someone who shares my wonder, I thought, popping the next grape into my mouth. Someone who would pause with me to watch the sunrise paint the mountains the softest golds and pinks, or sit in silence, marveling at how small we are in the world.

Number Three

I chewed the grape slowly, my gaze staying upon the distant mountains. I wished to see more of the world. To hike trails I’d only read about, to taste foods I couldn’t pronounce, to hear languages I didn’t understand and let them wash over me like music.

Number Four

The music below shifted, and a couple on the street swayed to its rhythm, their faces lit with joy after sharing a New Year’s kiss. I took another sip of champagne, letting the bubbles fizz and tickle my lips. This wish was softer, quieter. I wished to feel proud of myself. Not just for the big accomplishments, but for the small ones too. For showing up, for trying, for being here when it would’ve been easier to give up.

Number Five

The grape was sweeter than the last, its juice spilling across my tongue. I wished for laughter. The deep, belly-aching kind of laughter that spills over during quiet moments and which can be heard ringing across Old Campus, rivaling even the chimes of Harkness.

Number Six

My first red grape. I have to wish for something special, I thought. The grape was soft and yielding. I wished for a love that felt like home. Not just a physical space, but a feeling — of safety, of belonging. A love I could come back to over and over again. The kind of love that starts with a conversation about nothing in particular and slowly becomes everything.

Number Seven

Another grape, another wish spilled out before I could catch it. I wished to meet someone who makes me forget to check the time. I thought of late-night conversations in butteries, stories whispered in abandoned classrooms of LC — conversations on wooden benches stretching into the early hours, laughter spilling into silences that felt warm instead of awkward.

Number Eight

I hesitated before eating the next grape. This wish felt heavier than the last. I wished for those who would stay. Not for people who would wander in and out of my life like a passing storm. For friendships with a love that’s steady. A kind of love that stays even when things get hard. Someone who’d hold my hand when I was stressed about finals or trek with me to GHeav just because.

Halfway through the wish, I felt a twinge of self-doubt. Was this silly? Was I setting myself up for disappointment? I glanced around at the crowd, couples kissing under the twinkling lights, hugging tightly. I resolved to keep going.

Number Nine

I popped the next grape into my mouth, closing my eyes against the wave of longing it brought. I should wish for success, I instinctively recited to myself. But in what? In school, in life? For an irrational 4.0 GPA? No. I settled to wish for clarity. To know what I wanted, what I was working toward and whether the path I was on was the right one.

Number Ten

This wish spilled out before I could catch it. I wished to stop being so scared of failure. To turn in a paper without second-guessing every sentence, to speak up in a seminar without worrying I’d sound foolish. To allow myself the grace to learn, even when I stumbled.

Number Eleven

I felt myself slowing down, ironically sobering up. I lifted the second-to-last grape, my heart heavy. I wished for forgiveness. For my mistakes, for the times I’d hurt others unknowingly and for the times I’d let myself down.

Number Twelve

The final grape, cool and smooth in my fingers, felt like a promise. I wished to believe in possibility. That anything could happen, that this year could surprise me, that the best parts of my story were still waiting to be written.

BAALA SHAKYA
Baala Shakya covers Student Life for the News. She is also a staff photographer and writes for the WKND. Originally from San Antonio, Texas, she is a first-year in Trumbull College majoring in History with a certificate in Medieval Studies.