The day outside is foggy, grey; not the best day to play tag or grounders or anything at all. There’s a rush of people everywhere, whispering compliments into my ear or shouting a wish at me from across the room. Everyone says I should be looking forward to what comes next, but all I can think about is what I’m leaving behind. I’m supposed to feel happy, excited, but I feel nothing. Just an empty hollowness, grey like the sky outside.
I feel a warm hand -my mom’s- on my back, rushing me to the table where a glossy cake sits, unaware that it’s about to be eaten. My mom plants me in front of the table, her hand falling away, and I peer at the expectant faces that surround me. Their gazes are heavy, so I focus instead on the cake before me, counting the candles though I already know how many there are. Eighteen. Eighteen candles for eighteen years of existence, waiting to be blown away. Song breaks out around me, warm and overbearing at the same time, and I realize I should blow out the candles. I close my eyes and draw a deep breath, ready to extinguish the flame with a single breath; but I can’t. My eyes flutter open, the breath I held back released in a disappointing exhale. Tauntingly, the candles dance before my eyes, daring me to blow them out. They’re just candles. It should be easy. You do this every year. But I’ve never blown eighteen.
Beautifully written!❤️
Thank you! <3