Night descended, and the city lit up like a restless sea of stars. Neon signs flashed against the sky, painting the darkness in hues of red, blue, and gold.
Ethan Cross walked slowly toward the apartment complex where his mother, Anna Xu, rented a small place. In his hands, he carried the strawberry cake Lila Hart had convinced him to buy earlier. Its delicate pink frosting and sweet scent should have been comforting, but instead, his chest felt hollow.
He looked up at the rows of glowing windows. Light spilled warmly from hundreds of homes, but to Ethan, not one of those lights belonged to him.
When he reached the stairwell, he nearly collided with Anna. She was rushing downstairs, suitcase in hand.
She looked older than her early forties—her face drawn and weary from years of endless work. Her uniform was neat, but the fatigue in her eyes told a different story.
"Ethan, I've got something urgent. Make yourself dinner or go back to your father's," she said briskly, barely slowing her pace.
Your father's. That was the place Anna still called his "home," though Ethan had never felt it belonged to him. On paper, custody had gone to Richard Cross years ago.
"Mom, can't you stay just a little while? Eat some cake with me?" His voice cracked with a fragile hope.
Anna glanced at her watch, frowning. "No time. Next time, okay?"
"Not even for a few minutes?" Ethan tried again, desperation sharpening his tone.
Her face softened for a second, but then she hardened herself. "You're eighteen now. An adult. Be sensible."
She turned and wheeled her suitcase down the steps without looking back.
Ethan stood rooted, watching her retreat until she disappeared into the night. His eyes burned, but no tears fell. Loneliness pressed into his chest like a weight.
What would telling her change anyway?
If he confessed the truth—that he had only three months to live—it would only break her sooner. She would still be forced to work, still endure endless hardships. Burdening her now would solve nothing.
He even thought of her colleague, a divorced man who had been pursuing her for some time. If Ethan were gone, maybe Anna would be freer to accept someone new, someone who could care for her in her later years.
"I'm eighteen," Ethan whispered bitterly. "Is that sensible enough?"
---
After standing in the stairwell for a long moment, he turned and left.
His shoulders felt impossibly heavy, too fragile to carry the load fate had placed upon him.
Carrying the cake box, Ethan crossed half the city again, the night wind biting against his skin. By the time he arrived at his father's apartment, his hands were cold, and his heart felt colder.
When the elevator doors opened, he saw the front door ajar, golden light spilling into the hallway.
Inside, cheerful voices rose in unison:
"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…"
The sound froze him in place.
It was then that he remembered—tonight was Daniel's birthday.
His younger half-brother, the child of Richard Cross and Linda Qin.
Their rural hometown followed the lunar calendar for birthdays, but at school, teachers and friends only marked the dates by the Gregorian one. Sometimes, even Ethan forgot.
He and Daniel were years apart. Their relationship was thin, more like that of distant relatives than siblings.
Ethan lingered in the shadows of the doorway, watching.
"Dad, Mom," Daniel's voice rang out, soft with sincerity. "I hope the three of us will always be happy together and celebrate my birthday every year."
The words struck like knives.
The three of us.
Sure enough, in their eyes, family meant Richard, Linda, and Daniel. Ethan was never included.
Linda glanced at Richard. "Should we call Ethan? See if he wants to come?"
Richard waved a hand dismissively. "No need. He's probably with Anna. If he wanted to be here, he would have come on his own."
They laughed and clapped as Daniel blew out the candles. Together, they cut into the large, decorated cake, piled high with fruit and chocolate.
Ethan's chest twisted painfully. He looked down at the small strawberry cake in his own hands. Compared to theirs, it looked cheap, pitifully out of place.
For a moment, he considered turning away quietly. To walk back into the night and never bother them again. But just then, the door opened wider, and Linda spotted him.
"Ethan! You're back. Why are you standing out there? Come in."
He froze, feeling like a thief caught spying on someone else's happiness. Slowly, he lowered his head and stepped inside.
"Dad," he mumbled.
Richard responded with nothing more than a distracted hum.
Every time Ethan crossed this threshold, he felt the same tension—as though walking on ice that could crack beneath his feet at any second.
The warm, joyous atmosphere deflated at his presence. He felt the heaviness pressing on him from every direction.
"Today is Daniel's birthday," Richard said flatly. "Wash up and have some cake."
Ethan's throat constricted. "You eat first. I'll… I'll get something from my room."
Without waiting for permission, he fled, clutching the cake like a shield, and shut the door behind him. Only then did he breathe again.
From a drawer, he pulled out an old bamboo flute. Dust coated its surface. It was a prize he had once won in a music competition as a child. He hadn't touched it in years.
The memory of that small triumph stabbed at him now. A time when he thought his achievements might mean something to his parents—before he realized nothing he did could bridge the distance.
---
A knock broke the silence. Daniel's voice came from outside. "Mom and Dad said to bring you some cake."
Ethan opened the door slowly, forcing a stiff smile. "Thanks. Happy birthday, Daniel."
Daniel stepped inside, his eyes immediately landing on the small strawberry cake. His lip curled in disdain.
Spoiled from childhood, Daniel had never considered Ethan an equal. They shared a father, but not a mother. To him, Ethan was just a boring "good student," a bookworm who didn't belong.
"You didn't have to come back," Daniel said coldly. "You don't like being here, and honestly, I don't like it when you're here either. You ruin the mood."
Ethan's grip tightened on the flute.
"I'll leave now," he said softly. Taking both the flute and the cake, he brushed past his brother.
Linda's voice called out from the dining room. "Ethan, where are you going so late?"
He stopped and looked at Richard. His father's face was calm, unreadable.
"Dad," Ethan asked, his voice trembling, "my studies are heavy. It's easier to stay with Mom. But… three months from now, will you come pick me up to come home?"
Richard blinked, caught off guard by the odd phrasing. Three months? By then Ethan would nearly be graduating. Why ask something like that?
"It's fine if you don't," Ethan muttered. Disappointment dulled his eyes. He turned quickly and left before anyone could reply.
The elevator doors slid shut. At last, tears spilled down his cheeks.
He envied Daniel so much.
Daniel had parents who celebrated his birthday, who laughed with him, who loved him openly.
And Ethan? He had parents too, but it was as if he didn't. His greatest tragedy wasn't the illness eating at him—it was that, even before it, he had no one he could truly turn to.
---
Outside, the night air cut colder.
Maybe the turmoil inside him triggered the illness, because suddenly, blood began to drip from his nose. Red drops spattered against the grey pavement.
The sight blurred his vision. The blood was the same crimson as the tassel hanging from his flute.
Three months…
By then, he would no longer be in this world. Whether they came to "pick him up" or not wouldn't matter. Whether his ashes were buried, scattered, or simply forgotten—none of it mattered.
Life was bitter enough. He doubted there would even be another one waiting.
Clutching the bamboo flute and the strawberry cake, Ethan wandered aimlessly down the empty streets. He pressed tissues against his nose, but the bleeding wouldn't stop..
Then, through the haze of pain, he remembered—earlier that day, when he'd bled in front of Lila Hart.
She had held the back of his head with one hand, her touch warm and steady, her fingertips somehow gentle enough to still the flow.
The image of her smile surfaced in his mind. And for the first time that night, in the depth of loneliness, Ethan felt a faint trace of warmth flicker inside him.