Letters to Autumn

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V. Your Birthday
May 1988

You once told me, on our first date, how much you hated your birthday. It was a quiet admission, tucked between moments of laughter, but it stayed with me, just as everything about you does. You never explained why, but I remembered-like I remembered everything.
May 4th 1988. I came to your door, bouquet in hand, white lily of the valleys. You told me once, on a cold night under a sea of stars, that they were your favorite flowers. I couldn't forget. The petals were delicate, fragile, much like how you seemed when you opened the door. Your eyes, glossy with unshed tears, met mine, and without a word, you fell into my arms.
I held you close, confused, aching to know why the girl I adored was unraveling in front of me. I could only stand there, helpless, as you pressed your face to my chest, your tears soaking into my shirt. I would've given anything to take away your pain, but I didn't know how. Not yet.
You let me in, and we curled up on the worn couch in your living room, the old TV humming softly in the background, playing your favorite movie. I ran my fingers through your hair, the way you loved, the way that always made you sigh in that soft, contented way. You told me once it made you feel loved, and I never stopped doing it after that. There wasn't a single day that passed where my love for you didn't deepen, and I wanted you to feel that in every touch.
In the dim light of that room, I asked if you wanted to talk. I promised to listen, that even if it didn't make sense to me, I would find a way to understand, because your feelings were valid. You mattered. I told you I would always be there for you, no matter what.
You looked up at me then, your eyes still heavy with melancholy, and you began to tell me the story I hadn't known-the story that lived in the shadows of your heart.

"When it's my birthday," you whispered, voice trembling, "all I can think about is how if I hadn't been born, maybe my father wouldn't have left my mother. It feels like my fault. Like my birthday is a reminder that I'm a burden."

A burden. How could you ever think that? I wished you could see yourself the way I see you. Flawless. My perfect girl, whole and radiant, carrying burdens that were never yours to bear.
I smoothed my hand over your head, gently, whispering soft words into your ear, hoping they might reach the places inside you that hurt the most. You cried that day, more tears than I'd ever seen, and I kissed away every single one, tasting the salt of your sorrow on my lips.
I managed to coax you into eating a small cupcake, the sweet frosting a soft contrast to the heavy weight in the room. You opened my gift then, a silver pendant, and when you saw what was inside-the picture from our day by the lake-you smiled. It was the first time I saw your smile that day, and when you smiled, the world felt right again.
I kissed your forehead, a gentle promise pressed into your skin, and you asked me to stay. We lay together that night, quiet and still, your head on my chest and our pinkies intertwined, as if even in sleep you were afraid to let go.
Happy birthday, my perfect girl. If only you knew how much light you brought into this world, into mine.