I think I milked a single remembered birthday for too long. It wasn’t about the birthday, not really. It was about being seen. Being acknowledged.
All the long years we were parted I came to this space. But that’s all I did, wasn’t it? I came but did not call. I waited but never asked.
He’s moving now. Alive. Probably about to be hideously injured again, if the writer gossip is to be believed.
I feel like whatever I offer will be -lacking- but tonight I made zaru soba. Does he even like mine anymore? After all, I encouraged the other woman to make it. I sigh. Foolishness, my smug pride… ah, how a princess -falls-. How a man is betrayed.
“Happy Birthday,” I say, to the empty air in this dark room, setting down the box. My hand stops to caress the lid, for a moment, remembering other meals, finished and not.
“Good night,” I say. Wishing for more, hoping against hope… but at least he’s moving. Please… let him make it through the night he’s still in. Please, I ask the stars as the clock tolls, please protect him.