BIRTHDAY'S I shouldn’t be thinking about again

The invitation didn’t hit me as weird at first, except my stomach did that tiny tilt thing—like the half-second before you step off a curb you didn’t see—and I guess that was my first warning but, yeah, I ignored it. Blue card, smudged ink, the kind of casual “yo show up lol” vibe my friend usually does except… except the handwriting was wrong. I mean, close, like someone tried really hard to copy it but didn’t know how he curls his y’s at the bottom. I kept staring at that stupid tail of the y. Why’d that bother me so fast? No clue. Maybe the metallic taste creeping up my throat already knew something I didn’t.

Rule list on the back. Real rules. Like printout rules. Not cute party ones. More like instructions somebody didn’t want questioned.

Rule 1 — Arrive at 7:14 p.m. Hyper-specific. Too sharp. Felt like the number was chosen by something that doesn’t understand why people don’t schedule life in exact minutes. I got there at 7:16 ’cause the elevator did that jerky stop halfway like it forgot where floors are. My legs wobbled stepping out, like my bones hadn’t synced w/ gravity yet. Weird.

The hallway felt like it inhaled when I knocked. Buildings don’t breathe, right? idk. Maybe I was hungry.

My friend opened the door and his smile looked… stretched. Like someone warmed it up in the microwave first. And before I could say anything he beat me to it with: “Happy birthday.” To me. I’m not even CLOSE to my birthday. My spine did a weird cold bend, like someone pressed two fingers into the back of my neck.

Inside, people were standing around but not doing the things ppl do at parties. Too quiet. Nobody shifting weight, no casual laughter, just this… listening posture?? like they were waiting for a noise only they could hear. I swear I smelled something like burnt sugar mixed w/ old pennies. That smell keeps coming back in flashes today and it makes my teeth ache.

Rule 3 said not to touch the candles. But the candles weren’t ON the cake. They were in a circle around it on the floor like a— nah, I’m not gonna say it because that makes it sound stupid, but the wax puddles formed these strange loops, like someone tried to draw symbols but got bored and wiped them halfway.

Rule 4 was the one that actually messed with my breathing: If anyone asks how old he’s turning, say you don’t remember anymore. ANYMORE. The word stuck in my head like gum on hair. Like I’d known something once.

Someone asked—quiet, too casual, too early—and the birthday boy turned so fast the air around his shoulders kinda rippled. His eyes hit mine first. Heavy stare. Too expectant. My throat clenched and I said I didn’t remember. Lie. I knew. I know. Knew? idk which tense makes sense now.

Rule 5 was scribbled in shaky pen like the writer’s hand kept twitching: If he asks you to stay late… don’t. Tell him you already did. Already DID?? The phrasing tasted bitter in my mouth.

During the “cake part” he didn’t cut it. Just looked at it like he was waiting for it to blink. Then he leaned in close enough that I felt heat off him, weirdly warm, like fever-skin warmth, and said, “You’ll stay after, yeah?” It felt like a hand pressed into my sternum from the inside.

I said, “I already stayed.” It fell out of me before I chose the words. His exhale sounded… relieved. Too relieved. Like a test passed.

Leaving the apartment felt like stepping out of a humid room even though the hallway was freezing. Something followed me—not steps, more like a thought brushing the back of my ear.

All night I’ve been chewing on the sense I skipped a step in the rules. Like I owed something but lied my way out before knowing what.

This morning he texted me: “Your turn’s coming quicker than you think.”

I feel this tilt in my stomach again. Same one I ignored the first time. It hasn’t stopped all day.

And I swear— someone just slipped a new card under my door. I haven’t opened it yet.