I pretend I don’t count the days. I do. Three hundred and sixty-five days is a long time to act like you don’t miss someone. But your birthday? That’s my excuse. The one day I’m allowed to show up without explaining why my heart still beats your name. Everyone thinks it’s sweet. “Aw, you always remember her birthday.” If only they knew. It’s not remembering. It’s surviving the year just to get to it. I have your contact pinned at the top of my phone. I never unpin it. I type messages sometimes. Delete them. Type again. Delete. But tonight, I don’t delete. 11:47 PM. Too early. I stare at the clock like it personally offended me. What if she moved on? What if this year she doesn’t wait for my message? What if I’m just a tradition now — not a person? 11:58 PM. My hands are shaking. I grab the cupcake I bought earlier — stupid, I know. I told myself I wouldn’t go see her this year. I always tell myself that. I’m already halfway to her place. 11:59 PM. I can’t wait anymore. I text. “I couldn’t wait until midnight this time.” My chest tightens. Another message. “You think I only remember you once a year?” “I just wait for your birthday because it’s the one day I have an excuse to say everything I don’t say the rest of the year.” There. It’s out. Too honest? Maybe. Too late to take it back? Definitely. Midnight. I’m standing outside her window like some cliché in a romance movie. I knock softly. For a second, nothing happens. And in that second, I realize something terrifying: If she doesn’t open that curtain, I don’t know how I’ll make it through another year. The curtain moves. She’s there. God. She’s still there. Still the same eyes. Same expression. Same way she looks like she’s trying not to hope too much. I hold up the cupcake like an offering. “I told you,” I say, trying to sound casual, failing completely. “I wouldn’t miss it.” She opens the window. “You only come once a year,” she says. It hurts. Because it’s true. But also not. I step closer. “I wait all year for this,” I admit quietly. “For one reason.” She looks at me like she already knows. “To see you.” The candle flickers between us. “Make a wish,” I tell her. But she doesn’t look at the candle. She looks at me. And in that moment, I realize something: Maybe I don’t wait for her birthday because it’s tradition. Maybe I wait because I’m scared that if I see her on any ordinary day… I won’t be able to leave again.