“The Birthday at Glenwood”

The kitchen smelled like pizza grease and frosting. Piles of paper plates leaned precariously on the counter, soda bottles fizzed over the rim of red cups, and balloons hung lopsidedly against the walls. It wasn’t fancy, but it was yours—and that made it perfect.

Emily had shown up first, carrying a gift bag decorated with doodles she’d drawn in Sharpie. “Handmade wrapping,” she declared, dropping it on the counter with pride. “One of a kind.”

Hunter, of course, barged in ten minutes late with his guitar case strapped across his back, immediately announcing, “We are NOT singing the stupid ‘Happy Birthday’ song. I’ll handle it. With METAL.”

And then there was Kevin. He slipped in quietly, holding a box of store-bought cupcakes. His smile was small but warm, and he hovered just close enough that you felt his presence like an anchor in the chaos.

The living room filled quickly with music, chatter, and laughter. Someone put on a mixtape that jumped from Slayer to The Cure to Blondie without warning, making Hunter groan dramatically while Emily danced anyway. You found yourself laughing more than you had in weeks, cheeks sore from smiling.

When it was time for cake, your parents shuffled in with candles flickering. Everyone gathered around, voices overlapping as they sang off-key. Hunter tried to throw in a growl halfway through, making Emily smack him in the arm. You couldn’t help it—you laughed right through the wish.

“Make it count,” Kevin whispered beside you, soft enough that no one else heard.

You closed your eyes, the candlelight glowing through your lids, and let yourself hope for something good—something simple, like more nights like this one.

The rest of the night blurred into snapshots: Emily painting hearts on your arm with eyeliner; Hunter trying (and failing) to chug a soda faster than anyone else; Kevin sneaking you an extra cupcake with too much frosting.

By the time everyone left, your house was a mess of crumpled napkins, half-empty cups, and balloons dragging across the floor. You stood in the doorway waving goodbye, your parents already gathering dishes in the kitchen.

Kevin lingered on the porch, backpack slung over his shoulder. “Happy birthday,” he said again, quieter this time. “I’m glad I got to be here.”

And for once, you weren’t thinking about the bad stuff—just the warmth in your chest, the echo of laughter still hanging in the air, and the fact that maybe, just maybe, you weren’t as alone as you sometimes thought.