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January 22
Happy birthday.
Though I wanted nothing more than to forget, there were some things, some habits, that I couldn't easily break. Your birthday was one of these.
For years, we pulled all-nighters the day before, eating sugary snacks and watching cheesy movies until the sun rose. One year, we had an important math test the next morning — first period, too — but we couldn't break tradition. Our parents did threaten to after seeing our scores the following week: B-.
But we didn't care.
How could we? Their threats were empty, from the first sleepover to the last. We knew they loved our traditions as much as we did.
Your favorite was the twelve o'clock song — the only gift you ever asked for year after year. Paired with an equally embarrassing dance, the twelve o'clock song was five verses dedicated to your "incredible" qualities and skills. I always said it was just a glorified ego-booster.
This year, I was up late writing a paper. The clock on my desk struck midnight, the first seconds of January twenty-second. My body itched to dance, my voice straining to sing. The muscle memory of years spent embarrassing myself for you drove me out of my chair and onto the carpet.
For who?
You weren't in my room, nor I in yours. The floor was bare, void of the pillow forts and blankets. The shelves were missing rows of your favorite snacks and drinks. The TV was dark, the familiar hum of your favorite movie echoing in my ears only.
You were gone, and I had no one to dance for.
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