Emerson Castell loves facts.
Enjoying the how and why of everything, she never fails to let her obsession seep into every aspect of her life, including her relationships - or lack thereof.
Leo Caruso is no stranger to a busy social life, but after...
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The funny thing to me was if Emerson hadn't reminded me of my birthday, I would have barely thought about it.
There was a time where I would count down the days to my birthday. I'd leap out of my bed early in the morning that day and wonder what present I was getting or if my cake would be chocolate or vanilla. My birthday was always the happiest day of the year for me, at least as a naïve five-year-old.
The years after that, my birthday had become a day I dreaded. From then on, I was no longer excited when the day rolled around and all I did was try to forget what it brought. The years progressed from ignoring my friends' birthday wishes at school and coming home that day to play video games in my room to smoking on my balcony while texting random girls I had no idea why I talked to.
This year, it didn't feel the same. I was neither that happy child nor a depressed teenager; I didn't feel anything.
As I stood next to my locker at the end of the day, about to zip up my backpack, I stopped at the open front pocket. There was that pack of cigarettes I hadn't touched in a week. I didn't know why I kept it with me if I was trying to stop, but maybe it was because only part of me wanted to.
Emerson's words kept replaying in my mind every time I felt myself reach for one. "I know you're thinking that I really don't know you and that maybe I'm strange for caring, but I want you to know that I just have good intentions."
I usually never cared for people's advice, neither did I care for any of the advice the girls I spoke to told me, but Emerson was different. I figured it was the motive behind her actions; it was the first time I felt like someone wanted to help me while wanting nothing in return.
Except the solution still depended on if I wanted to help myself.
As I walked down the hall, I opened my phone and looked down at a text from a girl I'd gone to homecoming with in sophomore year. The overenthusiasm seemed to seep through the words, and I could almost hear her voice squealing, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LEO! Have the best eighteenth! NY misses you," followed by around six different emojis.
"The hell was that for?"
I looked up at the person I'd rammed into by accident. With all my birthday luck, it was Franco, sporting a look of contempt on his face.
"Like I meant to do that," I mumbled, walking past him to the doors. He latched onto my shoulder and looked at me with a peculiar type of stare, one I'd maybe try to decipher.
But not on my shitty birthday. This year, I couldn't be bothered.
☆
"You know, I think I finally understand why people always say kids grow up so fast," my grandmother began, wrapping her arm around me and looking at me with an aura of nostalgia. "I remember you on your fifth birthday. Such a happy little child you were."
