You grew up in a large family. Five brothers in sisters and ten cousins. You were always the most quiet of the bunch, though you were never certain if you’d always been that way or if years of being overshadowed taught you to be that way. It started small. It started with your art not having a place on the fridge, or your shoes wearing so thin your teachers were calling home to tell your parents that you needed new ones. Those things hurt but as a little kid you always thought it would change.

It did change, just not in the way younger you would spend their nights dreaming about. You were fourteen when your parents forgot your birthday for the first time. You didn’t bother to remind them, if it wasn’t important enough to remember you couldn’t see a point in reminding them. It just got worse from there. When you were sixteen your parents forgot to fill your stocking, a few months later they forgot about a dental surgery and you had to call a friend to pick you up while barely coherent on whatever meds they gave you.

At eighteen they forgot about your graduation. You had cords, you were graduating with honours, you had amazing scholarships. You doubted they were even listening when you told them all of this months prior. You spent the night at a friend’s house. You weren’t surprised but that didn’t make it hurt less. Your friend’s parents made you dinner and hot cocoa, your friend lent you pyjamas, and you slept on that couch that had basically become your second home with dried tear tracks staining your face.

Sadly you and that friend drifted apart after parting ways for university. You had never felt lonelier. It was hard to make friends when taking up space felt so unnatural, when you didn’t see a point in talking about yourself. You were never close to any of your roommates either, it was hard. It’s not that you didn’t try to make friends, you really did, it’s just that after years of being forgotten and dismissed conversations about anything other than what was expressly necessary were uncomfortable.

Then, in your fourth year, you met Gary. You two clicked immediately. He didn’t talk much either, preferring to sign or just write, so he understood you. He understood that sometimes words were too overwhelming and felt impossible. He understood the loneliness that came with being quiet and took it upon himself to help you.

He taught you sign language. He would sit with you for hours, patiently correcting your signs and reminding you of the ones you forgot despite being shown several times. He was patient when it still took you a long time to sign a full sentence and never got frustrated with you. He’s the reason you know about selective mutism, he’s the reason you learnt how to be patient with yourself.

How could you not fall in love with him? Luckily he felt the same way.

Now months later you’re waking up to an empty bed. Gary’s spot is cold so you know he’s been gone for a while and probably didn’t just go to the bathroom. So you go to find him, expecting to find him making breakfast. You weren’t entirely wrong, he is in the kitchen. There are also decorations and balloons placed strategically around the apartment along with a few presents on the table.

You hadn't even remembered your birthday was coming up and you certainly don’t remember telling him when it was. But here he is, once again reminding you why you fell in love with him and leaving you wondering what you’ve done to deserve him.

“Happy birthday, love.” Gary murmurs, reaching out a hand for you to take since he can’t really move away from the stove right now. He knows that you’re likely too overwhelmed and caught off guard to make the first move after being surprised like this and he’s more than willing to help you through it.