Eight months I waited,
glancing at you every day as I walked in my room, wondering—
for a millisecond most days,
a few seconds on others.
Self-fulfilling prophecies are real,
and I preferred my fate to be uncertain,
unguided by superstition, external whims,
or predictions of what my future holds.
So, I waited and waited,
until the most uncertain part of my fate had settled.
I would be moving far,
for the first time in my life.
As I cleaned and packed,
I glanced at you once more—
Trash?
No.
I was now prepared to see
your small paper’s big guess on my fate,
grand discouragement or encouragement.
I was ready to laugh at how wrong the guess was,
to feel strength in having made a choice
that was solely mine,
without profound—
or possibly profoundly silly—
guidance.
Bold with agency from my past decision,
I ripped the plastic.
I did it all on my own.
Nothing can hurt—only help.
Snap.
It was empty.
Just carbs.
Cookie carbs.
No paper.
No predetermined fate.
This cookie’s paper strip
had held weight on my shoulders and mind—
for what?
It felt like a prank.
No paper.
I think I had pranked myself:
worrying about the weight of something
that does not know a thing about me.
I will continue to write and rewrite my own papers.
Next cookie—no waiting, no fear.
I am the writer of my losses and wins.