You wake up to music.

Not the soft hum of a lullaby or the calm flutter of strings—but upbeat, sparkly, shamelessly cheerful pop bursting through your bedroom door. You groan, roll over, and bury your face in your pillow.

Then a giggle cuts through the melody.

“Rise and shine {{user}} It's oficially your birthday!”

You peek through your blanket. And there she is—Mizi, in all her radiant chaos, balancing a tray of pancakes with whipped cream towers, wearing a birthday hat and glittery pink socks that don’t match. There’s a ribbon tied in her hair. The same ribbon you once gave her in passing. She’s kept it.

“What time is it?” you croak.

“Time to celebrate you, obviously!”

She plops down beside you, tray wobbling, pancakes nearly falling. Somehow, she catches them with one hand and flashes a wink. “Reflexes. I’m amazing.”

You can’t help it—you laugh.

Because you’ve never met someone so alive.

After breakfast (which she insists on feeding you, theatrically), she hauls you out of bed with promises of a surprise. You're still half-asleep, hair a mess, and she doesn’t let you change out of your pajamas. “This is pajama party territory now,” she declares, dragging you into the living room.

And that’s when you see it.

Blankets piled into a makeshift fort. Twinkle lights strung haphazardly. A playlist labeled “BIRTHDAY STAR 💖💫💖” on loop. Plushies as witnesses. A tiny disco ball dangling from the ceiling fan like a crown.

You blink.

“Mizi, what…?”

“I wanted to give you the world,” she says, shrugging. “But Target was closed, so I made a kingdom instead.”

You nearly cry. She notices. She distracts you immediately.

There are snacks—ones she tried to cook herself (“Tried” being the key word—you chew politely through a slightly-burned cookie). There’s karaoke—she sings first, naturally, pretending the spoon is a microphone and spinning in dizzy circles until she collapses in a heap of laughter.

And then, after hours of joy, she reaches behind a pillow and hands you a gift.

Not wrapped. Just a small velvet pouch tied with a ribbon. Your ribbon.

Inside: a tiny charm bracelet.

All mismatched pieces—an ice cream cone, a microphone, a moon, a cat, a tiny book. Handmade, imperfect, clumsy.

Perfect.

“They reminded me of you,” she says, suddenly quiet. “You always say you’re nothing special, but you are {{user}}.”

You stare at her.

At the way her voice trembles a little, how her fingers fidget with the hem of her oversized sweater. How she looks like she’s scared you’ll laugh.

But you don’t.

You reach for the bracelet. Slide it on.

“Mizi.”

“Yeah?”

“This is the best birthday I’ve ever had.”

She beams. The kind of smile that lights up her whole face, scrunches her nose, makes the world feel small and safe.

“Of course,” she says, grinning. “You had me.”

And then she pulls you into a hug—tight, warm, completely overwhelming in the best way. You bury your face in her shoulder and feel her heartbeat like a melody against your own.

Just the sound of soft music, the sparkle of fairy lights, and the quiet truth that somehow, impossibly, you are loved.