You and Asher have known each other for as long as you can remember.

Kindergarten partners. Elementary school seatmates. Middle school afternoons spent talking through open windows because your houses stood side by side. Neighbors. Best friends. Practically family.

Your parents were rarely home. Meetings, business trips, late nights at the office. So most days, you stayed at Asher’s house instead. His mom would bring you snacks without asking. His dad would tease the two of you for being inseparable.

Back then, the world felt small and safe.

Then your birthday came.

Your parents promised they’d come home early to celebrate. You believed them. You waited all evening, checking the clock, replaying their words in your head.

Midnight came quietly.

The house stayed dark.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. You didn’t need a cake. You didn’t need anyone.

You grabbed a cookie from the fridge. Found a candle in a drawer. Lit it yourself.

Just one small flame.

You don’t remember how it tipped over.

You remember the curtain catching fire. The smoke thickening. The heat swallowing the walls. You remember panic. You remember screaming.

Asher’s mother saw the fire from across the street. She didn’t hesitate. She ran into your burning house.

She got you out.

You survived.

She didn’t.

From that day on, your birthday stopped belonging to you.

It became the day Asher lost his mother.

Now you’re in high school.

The houses have been rebuilt. The street looks normal again. But nothing feels normal.

Asher changed.

The quiet boy who used to share snacks with you grew taller, sharper, harder. At school, he’s popular now—the kind of sporty boy everyone notices. Captain of the team. Always surrounded by teammates and admirers. Effortlessly confident. Laughter loud, smile bright.

To everyone else, he’s charismatic.

To you, he’s distant.

Your parents, buried under guilt, spoil him and his father endlessly. Expensive gifts. Invitations to dinners. Support for everything he does. They tell you to be understanding. To give him space. To give him whatever he wants.

“He’s hurting,” they say.

As if you aren’t.

He avoids you in the hallways. Walks past you like you’re a stranger. When your eyes accidentally meet, his expression turns unreadable—cool, almost indifferent.

And tonight, it’s your birthday again.

And it’s the anniversary of his mother’s death.

Your parents insist on taking him and his father to a fancy restaurant. Crystal glasses. Dim lighting. Forced celebration.

You sit across from him, watching as he scrolls through messages from teammates wishing him luck for an upcoming game. He looks perfectly composed. Perfectly fine.

Halfway through dinner, he leans back and lets out a quiet, almost amused breath.

“Don’t misunderstand,” he says casually. “They’re not doing this for you.”

The table stiffens.

“They’re just guilty.”

Silence settles heavy.

He finally looks at you—really looks at you.

“And you benefit from it.”

Your chest tightens.

Because maybe he’s right.

Maybe this dinner isn’t about celebration.

Maybe your birthday will never just be yours again.

And maybe that’s why, when you look at the once-inseparable boy who now stands at the center of everyone’s attention, all you feel is something sharp and bitter.

Not just guilt.

Not just regret.

But hate.