Choices We Cant Make

chapter 2: birthdays

Birthdays never made sense to me, until it was my 12th - and it made a lot of sense to me.

I was 11, before the perils of the world could conquer me, I was 11 and very very normal. I would wake up to watch Disney international and sleep to One direction albums, I had no sense of pride or responsibility towards my future. I took my family for granted. I did throw up the occasional "I love you daddy" without even the slightest clue of what love truly meant.

I was turning 12 that September. I had a dear dear friend, Roy Davidson- who lived with his divorced mother in a condo right adjacent to ours. Me and Roy would spend our afternoons running across the lawns that connected our houses. We never really talked, we just met and played together.

Roy knew me for about 3 months since he moved in, and that birthday was my first with him.

For once, I had someone to spend my birthday with.

Since, I had a friend who I shared my lawn and my school with, I insisted on having a party. My mother invited the entire school, and Roy invited all his friends - all boys ofc. And I invited the 3 girls and they're group whom I would just nod to, and our entire family.

Aunt Arma got me a dancing ballerina that birthday, and Roy got me a CD of some Minecraft video game. I got a lot of gifts that day- most of them were things I never used.

My parents gifted me a bicycle that birthday, and a big beautiful cake.

I had never seen a prettier cake.

Roy helped me blow the candles- and soon I was surrounded with people who cheered me on and wished me. That felt nice. It felt nice to have people around me, faking smiles and pretending to celebrate my existence.

After our party, me and father spent an hour talking, I remember him telling me how much he loved reading. He gifted me a copy of Little Women.

I read it, that night itself. I know, it is silly to imagine a 12 year old comprehending 18th century feminism, but I did.

It was that night I concluded that I wanted to be a writer just like Jo March.

That day, was probably the last day I could call "nice". A few months later Roy left, and a few years later dad. Apparently Miss Anderson was a drug addict and she went to rehab. He moved in with his uncle in Germany- last I heard.

I wonder how Roy is now.

Anyways- this birthday was good, tomorrow is a new day with a new endeavour. I will meet Mr. Blue. A part of me does not want to go there, but a bigger part of me wants him to like me.