It would be a lie if he said he wasn't excited.

In fact, he had been excited since the moment his eyes opened this morning. There was a peculiar softness in the air, the kind that curled around his limbs, coaxing him to stay under the covers. But it was his birthday and even a man like him could afford to bask in the simple magic of being cherished.

Except it dawned to him that the spot on his side was empty. And the silence that enveloped the apartment was far too loud.

He sat up, a wrinkle forming between his brows. The scent of your shampoo still clung faintly to the pillows, ghostlike. In the kitchen, a letter waited, folded neatly in your handwriting — the one he always teased you about for looking like it belonged in antique love letters, too elegant for grocery lists.

Emergency. I’m so sorry, Ajax. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. Happy birthday, beloved.

A breath leaves him. Not quite a sigh, but close enough.

He tries to tell himself, convince himself that it was fine — that of course, things came up. Some certain things were inevitable. It’s not as if you’ve done this before. But maybe he finds himself a little foolish to expect balloons and cake first thing in the morning.

He can handle this. He always could, didn't he?

The day carried on as days do — sun climbing steadily, hours slipping by unnoticed — and it would’ve been unbearable if not for the warmth of others who reached out with affection. His coworkers gave him a round of applause in the office, their laughter echoing in the break room as they handed him a slice of cake with far too many candles. The the barista at his usual coffee shop scribbled Happy Birthday, Ginger! on his cup, and even his eldest brother called from overseas, voice full of boisterous teasing and sentimental threats to drink in his honor.

He smiled through it all, touched. But somehow beneath all that, there was a quiet sort of ache that curled underneath the surface of his facade. A want that seemingly had no name, save for the one that your voice would have carried if you had been the first to greet him this morning.

He missed you, there was no denying that. And he knows how much it annoyed him even though he tries his best to understand that you had some personal matters to tend to.

By the time he trudged back the steps to your shared apartment, the sun was already slipping behind the skyline and the city lights flickered to life. Somehow, he fiddled with his keys longer than necessary.

Maybe he was stalling. Maybe he feared the stillness awaiting him on the other side.

The house was dark.

The hallway stretched before him, empty and unlit, its silence loud enough to sting. No candles. No music. No you. He swallowed, jaw clenched. He had not expected fanfare, not really. But a part of him — soft, foolish, and quietly yearning had hoped.

He lets the door shut behind him.

But then the lights turned on.

Every bulb, every string of fairy lights, every candle on the cake flared to life all at once. And he sees you standing in the middle, grinning like a conspirator caught in the act. Behind you were his friends, his coworkers, and even his family.

Happy birthday!

For a moment he didn't move.

His chest felt too full to breathe properly, as if someone had folded the entire world inside him in a single heartbeat. The weight he carried today — all the hurt, disappointment, of wanting too much seemingly vanished and crumbled, replaced by something unbearably soft.

He lets out a laugh. Loud and breathless as he took in the sight of his loved ones before him in disbelief.

Instinctively, he reaches for your form, arms wrapping around you for reassurance as he shuts his eyes for a moment. “You're so ridiculous. I thought I'd celebrate my birthday without you."

But God did he love you.