I didn't expect the sun to rise any differently, but part of me hoped it would — that maybe on the day I turned twenty, the sky would glow a little warmer, or the birds would sing in tune just for me.
But no. The morning was normal. Annoyingly so. With birds chirping at my windows out of tune.
I stared at the ceiling from my bed, listening to the faint hum of the neighborhood waking up. No balloons. No confetti. Just me, the quiet, and the weight of knowing this could be my last birthday.
My phone chimed. First was Kate — obviously.
KATIE KAT: Happy 2–0, babe! Go be legendary today. Start that list or I'll fly down and write it for you.
I smiled, still tucked under my blanket, then texted back:
Me: Legendary is a big word. Can I just eat cake and cry instead?
Her reply came almost instantly.
KATIE KAT: As long as you eat it boldly.
I laughed quietly.
Just then, Dad's text popped up. Short.
Dad: Happy Birthday, Maya. Call me when you're free.
No emojis. No "Love, Dad." Just a reminder that things were still awkward between us. I didn't blame him. I wasn't sure how to act around him either — not since Deborah entered the picture and he started talking to me like a guest in his life.
I swung my legs out of bed and stretched, dragging myself into the kitchen. A small box sat on the counter.
I didn't remember ordering anything.
A sticky note read: You'll need this for your list. — Kate
Inside was a tiny leather-bound journal. Cream pages. Blank.
Waiting.
I ran my fingers over the cover.
Maybe it was time.
I placed the cake on the table. I didn't even open it.
Instead, I changed into my favorite oversized hoodie, pulled on some fuzzy socks, and curled up on the couch. I told myself I'd watch one comfort movie, but instead I found myself replaying memories in my head — especially one:
My thirteenth birthday.
Dad had tried to bake me a cake — no Deborah then. Just the two of us in a tiny apartment kitchen, flour everywhere, his hair dusted like powdered sugar. The batter was a disaster. We turned it into doughnuts and danced around to old Stevie Wonder tracks. I laughed so hard I cried.
I opened the first page, the crisp spine cracking slightly — the sound was oddly satisfying. For a moment, I just stared at the blank sheet, the emptiness daring me to begin.
What does a dying girl want?
I picked up a pen and scribbled slowly:
THE BUCKET LIST
1. Do something terrifying (but not deadly — I already have that covered).
2. Kiss someone I shouldn't.
3. Forgive my dad.
4. Forgive myself.
5. Watch the stars from a rooftop.
6. Ride a train alone.
7. See Mom.
8. Dance in the rain — no umbrella, no shame.
9. Get a tattoo.
10. Feel infinite — even just for a moment.
I stared at the last line for a while. It sounded dramatic, sure, but wasn't that the point? I had a year. Maybe less. And if I was going out, I wanted to feel something beyond the ache in my bones and the bitterness in my chest.
I closed the book gently. One day, one thing at a time.
A knock pulled me out of the moment. I opened the door to a delivery man holding a small cake box with my name scribbled in blue gel.
"From Deborah," he said, handing it over and disappearing before I could fake a thank-you smile.
Deborah. The woman who now signed family cards with "love." The woman who baked me cookies that tasted like disappointment.
I closed the book gently, feeling like I'd just scratched the surface of everything I wasn't ready to admit.
I wasn't really sure what I wanted — the same way I'm not sure of today. No plans. No surprises. Nothing that screamed celebrate your life. Just quiet. Too quiet.
My stomach growled.
I shuffled into the bathroom, caught sight of my hair — messy, like it had been arguing with the pillow all night and lost. I sighed. If today wasn't my birthday, I'd have cursed the day already. Honestly, maybe I still would.
The kitchen offered little comfort. I stared at the cereal box on the counter, then the fridge. Eggs or milk. Maybe both. Or maybe nothing. The thought of eating felt... pointless.
I sank into the couch, knees to my chest, arms wrapped tight.
I'm tired of life.
The thought came sharp, bitter. Maybe dying isn't as scary as it used to be. Except for the pain, of course — the way it carves through bone and hope like a dull knife.
And yet... something in me still wanted more.
Which brings me back to number 10 on the list: "Feel infinite."
What does that even mean?
Maybe it's standing under a sky full of stars with someone who doesn't want to fix you, just be there. Maybe it's laughing so hard your stomach hurts, or screaming into the wind from the top of a mountain. Maybe it's just one moment when your chest feels light, your heart full, and everything that hurts fades — even just for a minute.
I don't know yet.
But I want to.
Maybe I do not want to die just yet. I want to feel infinite and not just eat gelato and maybe have a crazy ride in a car. I want to go wild and crazy before I die.