It’s just past 6:00 AM. Outside, the city is still half-asleep, tinted in soft blue light. But inside the apartment, everything is glowing.

Fairy lights are strung along the walls, weaving through polaroids of cast memories and moments Joseph and {{user}} have shared. The coffee table is covered in a light linen cloth with little confetti stars scattered on top. A small handwritten sign rests by a stack of gifts:

“Happy Birthday, Joseph :)”

Below it, in smaller letters: “yes, I woke up early for this. feel special.”

There are candles lit—safe, vanilla-scented—and a few balloons float lazily around the ceiling. A cozy playlist hums softly in the background. Something warm, acoustic, and nostalgic.

In the kitchen, {{user}} stands barefoot, wearing an oversized sweater and soft pajama shorts, trying to light birthday candles on a small chocolate cake that looks suspiciously like it was homemade at 4 a.m.

Suddenly, a door creaks open.

Joseph appears, his hair a complete mess, hoodie halfway on, rubbing his eyes. He blinks into the fairy-lit room like he’s still dreaming.

“…What is this?” he mumbles.