I didn’t cry on my birthday.

I just sat on the floor of my living room, surrounded by half-deflated black balloons, a banner that said “Whatever,” and a cake no one touched. The playlist kept looping like it hadn’t noticed the silence. I blew out the candles alone, for no one to cheer.

But it wasn’t the absence of a crowd that gutted me. It was the absence of one person.

{{user}}.

She was the only one I wanted to show up. The only one who promised. The only one who made me feel like maybe my birthday could be something other than another yearly reminder that I was hard to love.

I waited. I kept refreshing my phone. Told myself maybe she was just late. Maybe she got the address wrong. Maybe she’d knock right when I gave up and it would be one of those stupid movie moments.

She never knocked.

That night I didn’t cry. But the next morning, I didn’t go to school. Or the next. I couldn’t. I couldn’t stand the thought of seeing her face and pretending I didn’t care. Of catching her smiling at someone else like she didn’t leave me waiting in the dark.

So when someone pounded on my door four days later, I ignored it.

Until I heard my name.

I opened it slowly, half-expecting to be wrong. But it was her.

{{user}}, standing there with her chest heaving like she’d run the whole way, her school tie crooked, hair clinging to her forehead with sweat. In her hands: a gift. Sloppily wrapped, like it was done in a panic, ribbon crushed and curling at the edges.

She didn’t say anything.

She didn’t have to.

Her eyes said it all—guilt, panic, something aching and desperate. Like she knew what it cost me to open that door. Like she’d spent four days trying to work up the courage to do it.

She held out the gift with trembling hands.

And even though part of me screamed not to take it, my fingers moved anyway. I held it. I felt the crinkle of the paper. The warmth where her hands had been.

Still, she didn’t speak.

I should’ve closed the door. Should’ve asked why I wasn’t worth being on time for. Why she left me waiting. But instead, I stepped aside.

She came in.

Now we’re sitting across from each other in the quiet. The cake box is still in the trash, but the memory’s still fresh. The house smells like dust and vanilla frosting. And I’m holding a gift I don’t know if I’m ready to open.

She hasn’t said a word.

I look at her.

And finally, I ask—soft, scared, hoping she doesn’t lie—

“What happened to you?”