I’ve always been a strange child. It’s like I can’t do anything right. It’s like the universe has a mind of its own, and whenever I think I’m on track, it shifts and forces me the other way. I’ve learned to expect it.
I didn’t know what to call it until third grade when I met Phoebe. She didn’t tell me it was ribbit, but I came up with it when I spilled the truth to her. That’s when I first started hearing that little word in my head: ribbit.
The funny thing? The universe always makes the opposite of what I want. Every single time.
I could be waiting for a test result, certain I’ve failed. But then a whisper of doubt creeps in- and just as quickly is removed from my thoughts, as if my mind wants me to believe I’ve failed. And that, that tiny spark of hope, ends up turning the tide. The result comes back better than expected. And if I let that hope take over? The universe punishes me. My grade is not only incredibly low, it shatters something bigger- the realization I could’ve prevented this. One stray thought, and the world shifts beneath me.
Another time, my class and I were doing our usual morning question, predicting the weather. The room buzzed with voices. They all wanted snow. But I felt something. A weight. That snow wasn’t meant to come. So I leaned back, the classroom air sticking to my skin, and blurted out, “No, it’s not going to snow.”
The room froze. All eyes on me, like I had said something out of place, something wrong.
Then, like clockwork there it was—snow. Thick flakes, covering the ground in a soft white ganache.
I stood there, watching it fall, feeling something heavy drop in my stomach. The world had bent around my words, again, in that moment, I realized: the universe had already decided what I would say. Everything I intended had been flipped on its head, just for fun.
That’s ribbit. The world is constantly making the opposite of whatever I think, do, or feel.
Phoebe once explained it: “It’s like the universe is playing a game, and only it knows whether you succeed or fail in it.” I didn’t get it at first, but I do now.
It doesn’t just happen with people or words. It happens with actions, too. I had grown a bad habit of lying—of telling myself things that weren’t true, just to get the opposite result. It’s like when you know you won’t get something, so you lie to others to make it seem like you’ve already got it. One day, I sent a message in my classroom group chat, pretending to be someone else. I wrote that I had been accepted into a really big art program, even though I hadn’t. But I told myself that if I said it, if I acted like I was chosen, maybe—just maybe—I could make it happen.
I waited. Hours passed. And then, finally, someone replied, telling me how amazing it was, congratulating me. It felt good. I almost believed it. But when I checked my email that night, there was a notification from a museum. I had been rejected from every program I’d applied to, the email cold and final. I had used the lie as a shield, and the universe had twisted it, showing me the truth in the worst possible way.
Phoebe said it wasn’t my fault. She said, “The universe always lets you show your hand before it plays.”
I don’t know if she meant it to be comforting, but it wasn’t. Not to me. Because I’ve seen it. The universe makes sure I’m always one step behind. I never get the happy ending I think I’m supposed to.
I’ve tried to fight it. But it’s like an invisible hand, always twisting everything I do. Every decision always ends up opposite of what I think should happen.
Last week, I thought I might finally be able to break free. I was going to do something normal—something like everyone else. Talk without the weight of my thoughts, without the constant spin of what could go wrong.
I found this tutorial online for a spiritual cleansing. It seemed simple enough so I set everything up: the needle, the small piece of paper, the pen. I hesitated for a moment, staring at the pinprick of blood on my fingertip. The red stood out against my pale skin. But I continued.
The note told me to write to whoever was causing my curse, whoever was behind this maddening spiral. But I wasn’t sure who to blame. Was it the devil? Was it God? I didn’t know, so I just wrote: “To whoever it may concern—I no longer wish to have this curse. Please, let me be.”
I closed the note, folded it carefully, and placed it on my dresser. I figured the forces would see it. It felt like the right thing to do. I went to sleep, waiting for the universe to finally show me a sign.
The next morning, I woke up expecting something. An answer, a change, a hint that something was different. But when I reached for the note, it was gone. The pin was gone. The pencil, too.
I sat up, heart pounding, staring at the empty space on my dresser. They had just… disappeared. No sign of where they’d gone.
And I realized—again—that the universe had already made its decision. I wasn’t supposed to be there. Not today.
Phoebe’s voice echoed in my mind. “It’s okay. We’re not meant to know why.”
But I do know. The universe is playing, and no matter how much I fight, or how much I wish things would go my way, it always has the last word. I’m just a pawn in its game, moving against my will, turning right when I want to turn left.
I don’t think I’ll ever escape ribbit. And maybe I’m not supposed to.