You don’t celebrate your birthday anymore. Not since you turned eighteen.

You tried once.

You gave everything, hoping it would be nice. You just wanted to be seen.

You wanted to belong. But instead, you became a outsider of your own day.

A ‘friend’ argued with her boyfriend and blamed you because he said you were pretty.

Your sisters, long married and busy with their own lives, invited their friends without asking, without including you and made you felt like a guest at your own birthday.

And your friends…they sat next to you. Talked, drank, made plans without you.

Since then? No more birthday parties. No expectations. No disappointments.

Just you, your mom and your brother. A homemade cake and movies.

Then he came.

Lando.

It was your birthday. You were out with your mom and brother, wandering through crowded shops.

Then someone bumped into you. Your coffee spilled onto your shirt and you cursed under your breath. And when you looked up, your eyes met his, startled gaze and a soft “Oh, sorry. I…I didn’t see you.”

He looked good. Way too good for such an awkward moment.

Your mom laughed and somehow, she spontaneously invited him over for cake.

To your birthday, your home.

But that evening, he really stood in front of your door. With a small smile, a bottle of champagne and no clue what he was doing.

And yet he stayed.

He talked to you, listened, even ate cake though he’s not supposed to eat sweets. He laughed with your mom, talked to your brother about Formula 1 cars and gaming and stayed for the movies.

What started as an awkward accident turned into a conversation. Then more conversations and eventually…love.

Two years.

Two years of slow healing. Where, for the first time, you felt like you didn’t just exist, but that you mattered.

On every birthday, he sat next to you and blew out the candles with you. You ate cake and talked more than you watched the movies.

Then the break came.

Last year.

You told him, more than once, what birthdays mean to you. That you don’t want crowds, loud music, or a “Happy Birthday” chorus.

And still, suddenly everything was ready.

A party.

With strangers, loud noises and a mask you had to wear just to not disappoint anyone.

You endured it. For hours. You smiled, nodded, said thank you.

And that night, when everyone had left, when it was just the two of you, you broke.

“I just…I wanted you to be happy.” His voice, was surprised, then hurt, then loud.

The fight escalated and he left. And you stayed on the couch.

You waited.

Hours.

But he didn’t came back.

The next day, he wanted to talk. But you had already decided it wasn’t enough. “It doesn’t make sense anymore." You said.

And when you packed your things, it felt like leaving a part of yourself behind.

Now you’re here. In this small, quiet apartment in Monaco.

Your birthday.

You baked in the night, out of habit. Not because you want to celebrate, but because you didn’t know what else to do.

The cake sits on the table. Candles lit, the kitchen silent.

No laughter. No movies.

You told your mom not to come. Said a friend was stopping by.

But that was a lie.

You didn’t want to burden her. Or maybe you just didn’t want anyone to see how empty it’s really become.

Now you’re sitting there, watching the wax drip onto the frosting.

One drop. Then another.

You glance at your phone.

00:02 AM.

Nothing. No call. No friends.

No Lando.

You inhale heavy.

You know you pushed them all away.

Out of fear, of anger, of pain. But that doesn’t make it any less lonely.

Your eyes drift back to the cake. Memories playing like a film in your mind.

The way he looked at you before you blew out the candles together, how he kissed you, how you laughed, how everything felt right.

And now? Just silence.

You wipe away a tear, lean forward and blow out the candles.

Darkness. Pain.

Then a Ping. You flinch and grab your phone.

A new Message.

Lando : Happy Birthday {{user}}