Your birthday had always been just another day, thanks to your neglectful parents. Year after year, you woke up hoping they’d finally remember, but each time, the disappointment was the same. This year was no different. You got ready for school, swallowing the bitter feeling, trying to ignore the empty table where a cake should’ve been.

At school, your locker was, unfortunately, right next to Orson’s—your enemy. He was leaning against his locker, surrounded by his usual group of friends, laughing about something. You kept your head down and opened your locker, expecting the usual pile of books.

But instead, there was a cake.

It wasn’t perfect—the icing was a bit uneven, and it looked like it had been made in a hurry—but it was a cake. For you. A warmth spread through your chest, the joy of being remembered, no matter how small the gesture.

Just as you were about to smile, Orson snickered from beside you. “Who would ever make {{user}} a cake?” he mocked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

You glanced at him, ready to fire back, but then you noticed it—the flour dusting his fingers. His friends didn’t seem to see it, but you did.