June 14
I bought myself a small cake today. The cheapest one I could find, with pale frosting that looked tired even before I touched it. The girl at the counter asked if I wanted a message written on it. I almost said yes, just to see what it would feel like. But who would it be from? To myself, from myself? That felt too strange, so I shook my head.
When I got home, I placed one candle in the middle. Just one. I lit it, and for a second the room seemed less empty. The flame flickered against the peeling walls, and it almost looked like someone else was here with me.
I blew it out quickly, before the wax could melt into the icing. It felt like I was cheating time—pretending to celebrate when I wasn't sure there was anything to celebrate.
I cut the cake, but it didn't taste sweet. Maybe things lose their sweetness when you eat them alone.
Still, I kept a slice in the fridge. Maybe tomorrow it will taste better.