Birthday

5:12 a.m.

5:12 a.m.

She jerks upright in her bed, licking her dry lips as her eyes dart around the dark room. The sun isn't up yet; her day cannot begin now. But as she glances at her bedside alarm clock, its red numbers flickering in the faint light of the rising sun through the curtains, she knows she can't go back to sleep now.

She slings her legs over the side of the bed and hops out. She hopes her father hasn't already left for work; she can't trust in her mother to even leave a note for her in the kitchen. As she stretches and walks down to the kitchen on shaky legs, she fiddles with her phone. Hartley better not...

The kitchen is empty. The lights are on. There's a post-it on the food-wrapped bowl of lukewarm oatmeal. She checks it. She doesn't know why she still feels disappointed when she sees her dad's firm, sloping handwriting. She reads it anyway.

Mila,

I'm sorry for the oatmeal. Your mother would cook if she could, but she had a late night call. I'll be back early today; order some take-out for us!

Dad

No happy birthday. Fine. She flicks the note into the waiting trash can. Like anything matters anymore.

As she waits for the oatmeal to heat up in the microwave, she unlocks her phone and scrolls through her nonexistent notifications idly. There's no one. No one.

She feels her lip start to tremble and the muscle in her forehead begin to tick. That terrible feeling hits her in the chest in waves, and she bites her lip. No. No. She won't start her day like this, especially not her birthday. Especially if no one remembers it.

The microwave beeps. A split second later, her phone dings. She ignores the microwave and clicks on the banner flashing at the top of her phone screen.

Happy b-day, Mi! You HAVE to be up and ready by 8. I'll come and pick you up, and you better not be in your pyjamas and disgusting like you usually are on a Saturday.

She rolls her eyes and thinks, thanks for the love, Hartley. But she drops her phone face first on the counter and opens the microwave. She'll have her breakfast now, even if she'll be hungry in a couple hours.

In the deserted kitchen, she sits down at the countertop with no placemat, places her bowl down with a click, and fights the tear welling in her left eye as she shakily lifts the spoon to her lips.

At least this is better than last year, when no one fucking left her a note or overly cheerful text, as if she didn't exist.

Don't even think about him, Mila.

↔

She hasn't realized it, but her dad has probably left her something more than a note and a bowl of oatmeal. At least he did on her fifteenth birthday. She sighs as she places her bowl in the empty sink. Now she can only try to find that damned present, if she can. It took her three hours last time.

She opens the fridge to look for the orange juice. Oh my God. The orange juice is waiting in the back of the fridge, but it can wait. Instead, she pulls out a huge box with the words "Tiffany's Bakery" clearly printed in the signature cursive font that she sees all the time. She holds her breath as she places the box on the counter. And then, with a deep breath, for some reason, she opens it.

Happy 17th, Mila!

Happy seventeenth indeed. For some reason, she still feels sad as she gingerly lifts the cake from the box and places it next to her placemat. She doesn't want to cut into it. She doesn't even want to eat it without anyone else to share it with. But she stuffs the box into the trash can under the kitchen sink and takes a knife from the cabinet.