You Were Born Inside Your Head

Chapter 7

And so, we found ourselves on the cusp of our first birthday. Ging had gone all out, decorating the house with streamers and balloons that looked like they'd been picked out by a drunk clown at a dollar store. There was a cake, of course, one that looked like it had been made by someone who'd never seen a cake before. It was a monstrosity of sugar and despair, the kind of thing that would make Gordon Ramsay weep into his apron.

Gon and I were dressed in matching onesies that read "Best Buds," which was about as far from the truth as me being a fan of waking up at 5 AM. But hey, at least we looked adorable for the pictures that would surely haunt us for the rest of our lives.

The party was a sad affair, with Ging's attempt at balloon animals looking more like a biology experiment gone wrong. The air was thick with the scent of burnt rubber and hope, and the only sounds were Gon's incessant giggles as he systematically destroyed every balloon animal within his reach.

The furry plushie had been dressed up like a tiny ringmaster, complete with a top hat and a cane that it had somehow managed to swipe from Ging's pocket. It sat on the table, watching the chaos unfold with a detached amusement that made my blood boil.

Gon had discovered the art of standing, and was now using his newfound abilities to try and climb the bookshelves. Ging looked like he was about to have a heart attack, his eyes darting between us like he was watching a tennis match played by hyperactive squirrels.

"Don't touch that, Gon," he'd say, his voice tight with the strain of keeping his cool. But Gon was a force of nature, a tornado in a room full of breakable shit, and nothing could stop him.

Except maybe the furry plushie.

The party was in full swing, with Ging trying his best to keep up with the demands of his squawking, drooling gremlin. The room was a blur of pastel colors and desperate attempts at happiness, and I couldn't help but feel like the only sane person in a world gone mad.

And then it was time. The moment of truth, the pièce de résistance of this shitshow we called a birthday party. The cake was brought out, a monstrosity of sugar and despair that looked like it had been baked by a blind man with a vendetta against taste buds.

"Make a wish, Gen," Ging said, his voice thick with the kind of desperation usually reserved for lottery tickets and expired milk. I looked at him, then at the plushie, then at the cake.

Gen?

Who?

The room went silent, the echo of Ging's words bouncing off the paper-thin walls like a pinball in a vacant arcade. Gon had stopped whatever he was doing, his sticky hands frozen mid-grab, his eyes wide with wonder.

"Gen?" I murmured to myself, tasting the name like a piece of sour candy. It was the first time I'd heard it since the day I was born, or rather, the day I was reborn into this hellish sitcom.

The plushie's eyes twinkled with a knowing smile, as if it had been waiting for this moment. The room felt eerily silent, the cacophony of Gon's laughter and Ging's frantic party-planning muted by the sudden weight of the name hanging in the air.

Ging would always call me "little one" or "my child" or even "little angel," so when he actually said "Gen," it was like someone had flipped a switch in my brain.

The room grew quiet, the laughter and the sound of Ging's frantic party planning fading into the background. The plushie's eyes bore into me, that smug smile widening, as if it knew something I didn't. It was as if the universe had paused, waiting for my reaction.

"Gen," I whispered, testing the name on my tongue. It felt...odd. Like slipping on a pair of shoes that were both too big and too small at the same time. But there was something there, a spark of recognition that I couldn't ignore.