On my birthday, I wish you were a better man.

I only had one wish for my birthday — you.

On my birthday, I learned that growing up does not come with candles or applause. It comes quietly, in the space where your message should have been, in the way I stopped checking my phone and started pretending that lingering silence did not bruise me. 

I wore a new dress that I bought myself, smiled for photos that would later become memories, and made a bizarre wish — that you would actually be better for me. For us.

But you wouldn’t know those things. 

Even if the cake was my favorite flavor, the room fully decorated, and laughter filling the air, I understood something I couldn’t before: in order for me to feel loved, I must let go.

It hit me all at once. The broken promises, the loud silence, and the emotional absence — they were more than just warnings. They became wounds in my heart. 

Why did I always find myself wishing upon the stars, into a well, and on a candle that I wanted you to be better? Maybe it was the belief that love could make someone kinder, more accountable, more present. But despite our many conversations, accountability never seemed to cross your mind.

So I am left with my soliloquies — wondering if I am overthinking things, if I am too much, if I have somehow become a burden.

What if the only wish I needed to make… was for myself?