Stevie sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the old photograph of her and Emma. The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting shadows on the walls. Outside, rain tapped against the window, a melancholic rhythm that matched the ache in Stevie's chest.
It was Emma's birthday—the first one since she'd passed away. Stevie couldn't shake the guilt that clung to her like wet clothes. She blamed herself for Emma's death, replaying the accident over and over in her mind. If only she'd been more careful, if only she'd insisted on driving that night. But life didn't offer rewinds or do-overs.
Rich, her colleague and confidant, knocked gently on the door. "Stevie? Can I come in?"
She wiped her tears, her voice hoarse. "Yeah, Rich. Come in."
He stepped inside, concern etching lines on his forehead. "You've been quiet all day. It's okay to grieve, you know."
Stevie nodded, unable to form words. Rich sat beside her, their shoulders brushing. He'd always been there—steady, reliable. They'd shared late-night shifts, laughter, and secrets. But this was different. This was raw pain, the kind that clawed at your insides.
"Emma loved birthdays," Stevie whispered. "She'd plan elaborate surprises, bake cakes, and drag me out dancing. And now... she's gone."
Rich took her hand. "It wasn't your fault, Stevie. Accidents happen. You can't carry the weight of the world on your shoulders."
"But I was driving that night," Stevie choked out. "I should've been more careful. Maybe—"
"No," Rich interrupted firmly. "You can't play that game. Emma wouldn't want you to blame yourself. She'd want you to remember the laughter, the shared secrets, the way she'd tease you about your coffee addiction."
Stevie managed a half-smile. "She called it my 'liquid courage.'"
"That's the spirit," Rich said. "Remember her spirit, not the tragedy. Emma was fierce, full of life. She'd want you to live, Stevie."
"But how?" Stevie's voice cracked. "How do I move forward without her?"
Rich leaned closer. "You lean on friends. You let them hold you up when your legs give out. And you talk. Tell me about Emma. Tell me about the time she convinced you to dance on the bar at O'Malley's."
Stevie chuckled through her tears. "Oh, that was a disaster. I tripped and knocked over half the drinks."
"Exactly," Rich said. "Emma loved you, Stevie. She wouldn't want you drowning in guilt. She'd want you to celebrate her memory."
Stevie glanced at the clock. Midnight—the official start of Emma's birthday. She took a deep breath. "I miss her so damn much."
Rich wrapped his arms around her. "Me too. But we'll get through this together. And maybe, just maybe, we'll find a way to heal those broken pieces."
As the rain continued to tap against the window, Stevie clung to Rich, their shared warmth a lifeline. Maybe healing wasn't about forgetting—it was about remembering with love, celebrating birthdays even when the guest of honor was absent.
And in that quiet room, as the clock ticked past midnight, Stevie whispered, "Happy birthday, Emma."
Rich held her tighter. "Happy birthday, Emma."
