The first time Maddie realizes what day it is, you’re already distant.

Not physically, ghosts don’t really get that luxury, but emotionally.

Watching the sky like you’re waiting for something that isn’t coming.

Maddie figures it out when Wally makes an offhand comment. “Hey, wasn’t today—”

You disappear down the hallway before he can finish. She finds you in the auditorium, sitting on the edge of the stage.

“It’s just a day,” you say before she can even speak.

She crosses her arms. “It’s your birthday.”

“It’s the day I died.” Flat. Final.

Maddie steps closer. “You were born before you died,” she says carefully.

You don’t look at her. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

Because for you, it’s sirens. It’s darkness. It’s the last thing you remember.

“There’s nothing to celebrate.”

Maddie studies you. She’s quiet for a second. “You don’t get to erase it,” she says finally.

Your jaw tightens. “Excuse me?”

“Your birthday isn’t owned by the worst thing that happened to you.”

You laugh humorlessly. “That’s easy for you to say.”

She steps closer, lowering her voice. “I know what it’s like to have the day you died feel bigger than anything else. But that doesn’t mean it gets to swallow everything.”

You shake your head. “It already did.”

Maddie’s eyes soften. “Then we take it back.”

You finally look at her. “Take it back?”

“It was yours first,” she says simply. “Before anything else. Before whatever happened. Before this.”

She gestures vaguely at the afterlife. “It was the day you showed up in the world.”

You swallow. “And the day I left it.”

“Then we separate them.”

You frown. “You can’t just… separate something like that.”

Maddie gives you a small, stubborn smile “Watch me.”

You try to avoid everyone. You really do.

But when you walk into the old choir room, the lights flicker — not violently, just softly.

Like candlelight.

Wally is dramatically humming something that vaguely resembles a birthday song.

Quinn is holding a stack of old, faded party hats from the theater department.

Charley looks mildly confused but supportive.

And in the middle of it — Maddie.

Holding a tiny cupcake. “I told you,” she says gently. “We’re separating them.”

“I don’t want to think about how I died,” you say quietly.

“Then don’t.” She steps closer.

“Think about who you were before that.”

Your throat tightens. “I don’t even remember.”

Maddie reaches out slowly, hesitates — then takes your hand.

“You were stubborn,” she says softly. “And sarcastic. And way too competitive about everything.”

A faint smile tugs at your mouth.

“You were kind,” she continues. “Even when you pretended not to be..”

Her thumb brushes against your knuckles. “It’s still yours.”

The room is quiet now. Even Wally shuts up.

You look at the cupcake again. No candles. Just something small.

“Make a wish,” Maddie says.

You huff softly. “That’s stupid.”

“Do it anyway.”

You close your eyes. You don’t wish to undo your death. You don’t wish to go back.

You just wish to feel like this day doesn’t hurt as much next year.

When you open your eyes, Maddie is watching you like you’re something fragile and important.

“Happy birthday,” she says.

Not “I know today’s hard.”

Just— Happy birthday.

You let out a shaky breath. “It still feels weird.”

“I know.”

“But it doesn’t feel… as heavy.”

She smiles. “Good.”

There’s a pause. Then, softer: “You’re allowed to exist outside of how you died.”

You step closer without thinking.

“You’re really not going to let me mope, are you?”

Her smile turns teasing. “I like you too much for that.”

Your breath catches. “You do?”

She rolls her eyes gently. “Obviously.”

The others politely start filing out of the room, pretending they weren’t listening.

Maddie stays in front of you.

“You don’t have to love this day,” she says quietly. “But I’m not letting you hate yourself on it.”

You look at her like you’re seeing something steady. “…Thank you,” you whisper.

She shrugs like it’s nothing. But she doesn’t let go of your hand.

Your birthday feels like it belongs to you again. And Maddie makes sure of it.