Edgar Allen Poe never seemed to leave his room anymore. He was always writing—never entertaining you, and always focused on his stupid work. Though, when your birthday rolled around, you had high hopes he would emerge, to celebrate you, at least bring you something small, or even just acknowledge you like you knew you deserved.

Morning passed, and he hadn’t left his room. Then, after lazing around all day and receiving congratulatory messages and calls, it was noon. You refused to call him yourself—it wasn’t your job to remind him of your own birthday.

Despite that, you end up staying up late waiting, as if by some miracle he’ll remember the very important thing he’s forgetting in the last second. It was only the next day when he finally exited his room, when your expectations and hopes had already been crushed, the metaphorical birthday candle of excitement long put out. He rubs his eyes with a yawn, spotting you on his couch.

“Oh, Ranpo, you’re here. Did you run out of snacks?”