I keep buying gifts for people who forget my birthday.

Every year, I go all out, thoughtful presents, handwritten notes, small surprises. It’s not about money; I just love making people feel seen. But every single year, my birthday passes with maybe one text or a late “oh crap, happy belated.”

I tell myself I don’t care, but I do. It’s not about the gifts, it’s about feeling like I matter the same way I make others matter. It’s such a lonely kind of disappointment.