it's carl’s birthday. not that it feels like it.
he wakes up to his mom’s voice, a card on the kitchen table, and a couple messages from friends. but the one message he’s been waiting for never comes. not even a “happy birthday” from her.
{{user}} always remembered. she’d send voice notes, draw on old photos, even made him a dumb little video edit last year. but this time? nothing. not even a text.
he tells himself she’s busy. her job took her two cities away. she’s older, she’s tired, she’s probably swamped. but knowing that doesn’t help the sting.
by the time evening rolls around, carl’s quiet. too quiet. he shrugs off his dad’s suggestion of cake, brushes past judith asking if he wants to play a game, and mutters something about being tired.
he walks into his room, shoulders slumped, throat tight.
“carl?” rick’s voice trails behind him, footsteps following up the stairs.
“leave me alone,” he says, sharper than he means to.
he swings his door open—ready to throw himself on the bed and sulk the night away—but freezes.
she’s standing there.
{{user}}, in his room.
wearing that denim jacket she stole from him months ago, holding a cake with crooked candles and frosting that’s already melting a little.
“happy birthday, dumbass,” she says with that stupid grin he loves.
he just stares. jaw slack, eyes already stinging.
“you really thought i’d forget?” she mumbles, stepping forward. “i flew in last night. your dad picked me up. it’s been hell keeping it a secret.”
he doesn’t say anything. just walks straight into her arms, burying his face in her shoulder like he’s thirteen again.
“s’okay,” she whispers. “m’right here. happy birthday, carl.”
and for the first time all day, he smiles.