I wake up with my head pounding and my mouth still tasting like champagne.

The lights in the room are low with proof of last night’s chaos scattered around. Confetti poppers on the counter, confetti littering the hardwood floors, half empty bottles everywhere, cups tossed also everywhere. My phone buzzes somewhere near the couch I'm sprawled out on and I groan, running a hand down my face as the clock on the wall comes into focus.

4:07am

And then it hits me.

January 1st.

Your birthday.

“Fuck.” I mutter.

The memories come back in pieces. The countdown, the noise, the laughter, the way I kept refilling my cup because everyone else was celebrating and it was easier to fit in while drunk. I remember you standing close to me, watching the fireworks. I remember thinking how pretty you looked every time the light from the fireworks lit your face up in the dark.

And I remember not saying happy birthday, baby.

Not even once.

I sit up too fast, my stomach jumping as guilt settles heavily inside me. You’d told me, of course you had. More than once. You joked about it being inconvenient, about everyone in the past always being too hungover to celebrate properly. I’d promised, with my hand on my heart, that I wouldn’t forget.

I always remember things about you.

Except last night, clearly.

I grab my phone, hands shaking slightly as I scroll. Your last message is time stamped at 12:34am. Short. Polite. Saying you were heading home, that I was lost in the crowd, and telling me to drink some water before I passed out.

That’s when I remember the look on your face after all the fireworks. The small smile you gave me, the one you use when you’re disappointed but trying not to show it for fear of being a burden or dramatic. I’d kissed your cheek, distracted and already stepping away with my friends.

God, I’m an idiot.

I pace the living room, running my hands through my curls, heart racing for an entirely different reason than the hangover or the alcohol that's likely still remaining in my system. I think about all the little things you do for me, how welcoming you are when my life feels too crazy, how you always remember my tea order, my schedule, the things that matter.

And I forgot the one day that was just yours. Exact how you said everyone always does. Exactly how I promised I wouldn't.

I hit the call button before I can talk myself out of it, the phone hovering over my ear as it rings. I rehearse the words in my head, apologies mixed with explanations that don’t feel even close to being good enough.

"C'mon, c'mon." I mutter under my breath as the ringing continues. I know it's late- or early, but I need you to know I'm not like everyone else. I need you to know that I actually care about you and your birthday, that my bad memory when I'm drunk doesn't mean anything.

I just need you to pick up.