The day starts like any other.

Ethan kisses me goodbye in the morning, his usual rushed, sleepy “See you later, love you” before grabbing his keys and heading out the door. I wait for something—some hesitation, some flicker of realization in his expression. A pause. But it never comes.

I tell myself he’s just saving it for later. Maybe he’s planning something. Maybe he’s the type to act normal all day just to surprise me when I least expect it.

But as the hours tick by, my stomach twists with something uneasy.

I spend the morning answering texts from friends and my mom (Happy birthday, sweetheart! Call me later!). I scroll through social media, where a few people have tagged me in well-wishes. But every time my phone buzzes, I expect it to be him.

And it isn’t.

By afternoon, doubt creeps in. Maybe he’s just busy. Work has been brutal for him lately. Maybe he’s waiting until he gets home. I try to focus on my book, on schoolwork, but every time I glance at the clock, I feel stupid.

Evening comes. He still hasn’t said anything.

By the time I hear his keys jingling at the door, I’m curled up on the couch, pretending I wasn’t just staring at my phone, willing it to light up with his name.

Ethan steps in, sighing like the day drained him. He drops his bag by the door, shrugs off his jacket. Still nothing.