Our Worlds

Birthday

Hajara

"Hajara!" Sarah shrieked, assaulting my eardrums with the subtlety of a fire alarm strapped to a foghorn.

I groaned like a tortured zombie and rolled over, squinting against the aggressive sunlight flooding in like it was trying to melt me into a puddle of regret. Moments later, my mattress convulsed as Sarah launched herself onto it like a caffeinated kangaroo on a trampoline.

"I was just trying to exist," I muttered, trying to shield my face with my blanket. "Five more minutes, I beg you."

"IT'S SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 3RD!" she hollered, "We're halfway through the semester! Exams are coming in hot, like flaming meatballs of doom!"

"Wait, is it... my birthday?" I blinked at her through one eye, as if waking up to an existential riddle.

Sarah's face lit up like she'd just won a game show. "YES!" she screamed, flashing a grin so wide I could count her molars. Her hair—long, glossy, and clearly immune to morning frizz—swished around as she bounced on my bed with the grace of a deranged ballerina. "HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOUUUUU!" she belted out in a voice that made every note on the musical scale feel personally attacked.

I groaned again, more out of tradition than frustration, and tried to stretch without dislocating something. As much as her energy made me want to yeet her out the window, her joy was... alarmingly infectious.

"SARAH!" came my mom's voice from the kitchen, loud enough to rattle the cutlery. "Keep it down—people in China are trying to sleep!" Clanging and chaos followed, as though she was making breakfast with a sledgehammer.

"And by the way, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SWEETHEART!" she added, as casually as if she hadn't just used my sister's volume to contact the International Space Station.

I grinned and rolled out of bed with the grace of a tranquilized sloth, offering my mom a silent thumbs-up like a half-awake emoji. She didn't see it, but I felt morally obligated to acknowledge the birthday shoutout.

"Thanks, Mom!" I mumbled, sounding exactly like someone who'd been hit by a truck made of Monday mornings.

"SORRY, MOM!" Sarah hollered back, as if she were doing a vocal warm-up for a stadium concert. She rolled her eyes—dramatically, of course—then turned back to me with that manic grin that said I've had sugar for breakfast and now it's your problem.

"Get up, sis! We've got a big day ahead of us!" she said, bouncing on her toes like a caffeinated spring.

Before I could brace myself, she threw her entire body weight onto the mattress, catapulting me half a foot into the air.

"Rise and shine, lazy bum! You've got a birthday to celebrate—not sleep through!"

Her voice sparkled with pure, unfiltered glee. I, on the other hand, was still mentally buffering.

"It's 7:03 in the morning," I croaked, staring at her through one crusty eyelid.

"Exactly!" she beamed, already halfway out the door. "Prime birthday hours!"

I sat on the edge of my bed, blanket tangled around my legs, soul halfway detached. Somewhere in the kitchen, another loud clatter sounded—either a pancake flipping gone wrong or a saucepan explosion. Honestly, 50/50.

After Sarah's tornado entry, my room looked exactly how I felt—cluttered, mildly chaotic, and in dire need of adult supervision. Clothes on the chair (and floor, and probably under the bed), papers everywhere, and one sock dangling from the ceiling fan like it was plotting an escape.