How can words on a piece of paper make me cry?
KIARA: WHAT happened???? Are you safe? Do you need me to come over??
MEL: Mads babe please text. I’m worried.
LIAM: serious question: do I need to punch Jacob too?
NOAH: saw your door was closed. you know where to find me, okay?
My throat tightens. They’re all being so sweet it almost makes it worse.
I can’t sleep. I’ve been lying here for… I don’t even know how long. Ten minutes. An hour. A fucking lifetime. My brain just keeps replaying everything on a loop.
I type the same message to all of them before I can overthink it.I’m fine. I’ll explain at school.
I drop the phone onto my chest and stare into the dark for a second. After a couple more minutes, it almost feels like my breathing has gotten worse—when there’s a gentle knock on my door.
“Come in,” I call, trying to sound normal. The door opens and Dad steps inside. I quickly school my face into something that resembles okay. “Hey.”
“Noah asked me to check on you,” he says gently, walking over to my bed.
Of course he did.
Dad sits on the edge of the mattress, and I push myself up a little straighter against the headboard.
“I’m okay,” I say quickly.
He gives me a look. “Are you sure?”
I nod my head, which apparently does not look convincing at all. Dad studies me for another second, then reaches into his pocket. “Well… I was cleaning up some things upstairs today, and I found this.”
He holds out a white envelope with my name written in my mother’s handwriting.
I blink. “Oh my God—is that one of our old birthday cards?”
“Yeah.” He smiles softly. “Found the whole box, actually. This one’s from when you turned twelve.”
I take it carefully, thumb brushing over the familiar handwriting. “Remember how we used to make everyone wear those ridiculous paper party hats before cake?” I say, a small laugh slipping out.
Dad huffs out a quiet laugh. “Hey, that was your rule, not mine.”
“Because Mom said birthdays were only once a year and had to be celebrated to their full potential,” I mumble.
His smile softens for a second before he clears his throat lightly.
“You know,” he says, a little more casually, “he was always making sure your hat didn’t fall off before the candles.”
My eyes stay on the envelope. “Yeah, Noah was always helping me.”
Dad shakes his head. “No,” he says gently. “I don’t mean Noah.”
I turn my glare towards him, my eyebrows lifting up.
“I meant Ryan.”
My heart stutters. And Dad continues. “Kid used to hover around like your personal party assistant. Fixed your hat, relitthe candles when they got blown out, made sure you got the corner piece with the extra frosting.”
My pulse is suddenly very loud in my ears.
