I tried to act normal, to smile when I was supposed to, to thank them for the gifts, to eat the cake without feeling like it was turning to ash in my mouth. But every time I looked at Dad’s face, I saw the lines that had deepened since November.

Every time I looked at Mom, I saw the effort behind her smiles, the slight tremor in her hands.

And every time I glanced upstairs, I saw Blake’s closed door.

He hadn’t said a word to me since the day we found out about Mom’s illness. Not a single word.

He chose silence over scandal.

At first, I tried to get him to talk to me. I knocked on his door, I sent him texts, I even tried barging in once, but he wouldn’t budge. He’d barely look at me, and when he did, it was like I wasn’t even there. Like I was just some ghost he had to put up with until he could pretend I wasn’t haunting him anymore.

After a while, I stopped trying.

It wasn’t worth it.

Nothing I said would change the fact that he’d made his choice, and it wasn’t me.

So when February rolled around, I didn’t expect anything. And I guess that was the worst part—how easy it was to pretend like my birthday was just another day. How easy it was to sit at the table, blow out the candles, and act like I wasn’t thinking about him the whole time.

I went to bed early, the way I had every night since November. I told Mom I was tired, kissed her on the cheek, and slipped into my room before she could ask if I was okay.

I wasn’t.

I hadn’t been for months.

But she didn’t need to know that.

Neither of them did.

They had enough to worry about.

I curled up under my blanket, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint sounds of the TV downstairs. My chest felt hollow, like something vital had been scooped out and I hadn’t noticed until now. I turned my head, my eyes drifting to the small box sitting on my nightstand. A pair of earrings, silver and simple, the kind of thing I used to like before I stopped caring.

Mom had picked them out.

She said she thought they’d suit me.

My throat tightened. I didn’t want to cry. Not tonight.

But my chest ached, and my eyes burned, and all I could think about was how last year, Blake had spent my entire birthday trying to make me laugh. How he had stolen balloons from the grocery store and tied them to my chair. How he’d sung “Happy Birthday” off-key, loud enough to embarrass me in front of  Tiffany.