your birthday is quiet. by choice, mostly. a few texts from friends, a call from your father, a cupcake from the café down the street with too much frosting and not enough care.

your curled on the couch, half-watching something you’ve already seen - some cheesy romcom feeling bad for yourself when your phone buzzes. ‘1 new message. unknown number.’

“happy 18th birthday, victoria, you always hated getting older. hope this year’s gentler with you, i miss you in more ways than one.” -L

you stare at it, thumb hovering. it’s definitely lottie. no one else texted like that—warm, a little cryptic, a little too knowing. and of course no punctuation except where it stings.

you type: ‘thanks, you. that means a lot.’ deletes it. types again: ‘miss you too.’ deletes that faster. the screen dims. the message just sits there, quiet and dangerous.

you eventually save the number just incase and then quickly toss the phone facedown and try to pretend your heart isn’t racing. try to pretend it didn’t mean anything. try to pretend lottie didn’t remember.