you were a bit of a mystery to everyone.

it wasn’t like you didn’t talk—you did. you joked around, chimed in during conversations, laughed at the right moments. you just never talked about yourself, and that was what frustrated the party the most. they knew random little things that slipped out naturally, like your favorite movie, which cafeteria food you avoided at all costs, or what character you always defended during arguments. but anything deeper than that? nothing.

you were always the listener. the one who leaned back on the couch, knees pulled to your chest, nodding along while everyone else talked. you added comments, asked questions, made people feel heard—but you never turned the spotlight inward.

while the others quietly debated how they were going to crack you open one day, mike tried very hard to keep the small, knowing smile off his face.

because he knew.

he knew your favorite color, the one you pretended you didn’t care about. he knew your habits, the big ones and the tiny ones—the way you chewed on pens when you were thinking, how you always woke up earlier than you needed to, how you hated mornings but loved late nights. he knew what snacks you reached for first, which teachers you secretly liked, which ones you complained about the most. he even knew your birthday.

and when the clock clicked over to midnight, mike proved it.

he stood awkwardly in your doorway, holding a plate with a slice of your favorite pie, a single candle stuck into it at a crooked angle. in his other hand was a small gift bag, clearly overthought and slightly crumpled from being held too tightly.

“happy birthday,” he said softly, then cleared his throat. “uh… yeah. happy birthday.”

he hadn’t told the others. this wasn’t for the party. this was just for you.