I woke up at 6:47 a.m. expecting something.
I'm not sure what. A message, maybe. One of those automatic "happy birthday" ones Facebook sends. Anything that confirmed that today was different from the other 364 days of the year.
My phone was on silent, as always. Two notifications: a bank update and a promotional email from Netshoes. 40% off sneakers I'll never buy.
Nothing else.
I lay in bed for about ten minutes staring at the ceiling, waiting. Like when you're expecting an important call and keep checking if the volume is maxed out, if the signal's good, if the phone didn't glitch. Except I wasn't waiting for a call. I was just waiting to be remembered.
I got up. Coffee. Shower. The same bullshit as always.
At 8:23 a.m., I sent a message in the family group chat.
"Good morning."
My mom replied at 8:51: "Good morning, son, everything okay there?"
My brother sent a thumbs-up emoji at 9:02.
My dad didn't even open it.
I stared at the conversation, waiting. Waiting for someone to notice. For someone to do that little act of "wow, there's something special today, right?" even though they already knew. For someone to pretend they'd forgotten just to make a joke.
Nothing.
At 9:30, I decided to test my best friend.
"So, how are you?"
She took about twenty minutes to reply.
"Dead, spent the whole night finishing my thesis. And you?"
"I'm good."
"Good, at least one of us is surviving hahaha."
End of conversation.
I looked at my phone's calendar. March 15th. The date was there, marked with a little cake icon. Synced with all my accounts. Google. Apple. Outlook. All the systems knew. All the platforms remembered.
Except people.
Work was worse.
I got there at 10:00 a.m. — home office only on Wednesdays, unfortunately — and Carol from reception greeted me with that automatic "good morning" she gives literally everyone. I grabbed coffee in the break room. Sat at my desk. Turned on the computer.
At 10:47, my boss messaged me on Slack.
"I need that report by the end of the day."
No good morning. No "please." Just the demand, like I was an extension of Excel.
I replied: "Sure."
He didn't even react with an emoji.
The day dragged on like that. Meetings. Emails. Spreadsheets. Amanda from finance complained that I'd forgotten to send a file yesterday. I apologized. She said, "Okay, but don't forget again, okay?" with that tone of someone mentally cataloging your mistakes to use against you later.
At 12:30 p.m., I went out for lunch.
There was a self-service restaurant a block down that I always went to. The cashier recognized me by sight — I was the guy who always got grilled chicken and broccoli and paid with a card. She rang me up, I paid, she said "enjoy your meal" without looking at my face.
I sat alone at a corner table.
There was a couple at the table next to me. She was showing him something on her phone, both of them laughing. At the table in front, four coworkers — you could tell by their badges — talking loudly, making inside jokes, existing as a group.
I chewed my unseasoned chicken and thought: does anyone here know it's my birthday today?
Not that it mattered. None of them owed me anything.
But no one who did owe me remembered either.
I went back to the office at 1:40 p.m. and stayed until 6:00 p.m. finishing the damn report. When I sent it, my boss saw it and didn't reply. No "thanks." No "you can go." Nothing.
I shut down the computer and left.
On the way home, I passed by a bakery. There were cakes in the window. Chocolate, strawberry, lemon. Those small individual ones, with a complimentary candle if you asked.
I went in.
"Good evening, what would you like?"
"A chocolate cake. The small one."
"Do you want a candle?"
I hesitated.
"Yes."
She put the cake in a bag, stuck the candle inside, charged me R$12.90. I paid. She said "thank you, come again" like she'd just sold me some paracetamol.
I got home at 7:20 p.m.
I live alone in a one-bedroom apartment that's way too expensive for me, but it was the only one available near work when I moved. The walls are too white. The couch is beige. There's a plant in the living room that I forget to water and that, by some miracle, is still alive.
I put the cake on the coffee table.
Took the candle out of the bag. Stuck it in the middle of the cake. Grabbed a lighter from the drawer — I don't even smoke, but there's always a random lighter somewhere.
I lit the candle.
Sat on the couch.
And stared at the flame.
It's part of the ritual, right? Make a wish. Blow it out. Celebrate. But celebrate what? With whom?
I picked up my phone. Opened Instagram. Stories of people traveling, people working out, people eating at fancy restaurants, people complaining about Monday — even though it was Thursday.
No public "happy birthday." No tribute. No post with my photo and the caption "happy birthday to this amazing human being."
Not that I expected it. I'm not that kind of person. I'm not the celebration guy, the presence guy. I'm the guy who's always there but no one notices if he's gone.
I opened Facebook — yes, I still have it, like those old people who couldn't let go of Orkut. The platform had sent birthday notifications to everyone I know. 847 friends. How many opened it? How many read it? How many thought "I'll message him later" and forgot?
Zero messages.
Zero comments.
Zero anything.
I went back to WhatsApp. Checked my mom's status. Last update: 5:30 p.m. A photo of the sunset with the caption "God is perfect." Thirty-two views. She had time to post a sunset but not to remember her son's birthday.
Did she remember and just not care?
Was she waiting for ME to remind her?
Am I so insignificant that my own birth doesn't deserve five seconds of attention?
I looked at the candle. The wax was starting to drip. The flame flickered every time the air conditioner turned on.
I could make a post. Like those people who post "another year of life, gratitude" with a smiling photo. Force people to remember. Make them feel guilty. "Shit, it was his birthday and I forgot."
But that would be too pathetic, even for me.
I could message the family group. "Hey guys, just a reminder that today is my birthday." See what happens. See how long it takes for someone to react. If anyone reacts.
But I won't.
Because the truth — the truth I don't want to admit but that's growing in my chest like a tumor — is that I want to be remembered without having to ask.
I want to matter without having to perform importance.
I want at least one person to wake up today and think "fuck, it's his birthday" and send a shitty message, anything, just to show that I'm not completely invisible.
But no one did.
And you know what's worse?
I ALWAYS remember.
I remember my mom's birthday. My dad's. My brother's. My best friend's. I send messages. I ask if they're doing anything. I pretend not to care that much because, deep down, I care. I know what it's like to be forgotten, and I don't want to do that to anyone.
But no one reciprocates.
No one keeps me in their mental calendar. No one sets a reminder. No one thinks "damn, I need to message Marcos today."
Because I'm not the kind of person people remember.
I'm functional. I'm the guy who replies to emails quickly, who does the report, who doesn't cause trouble, who doesn't demand anything. I'm useful. But useful isn't memorable.
The candle had already burned halfway down.
I still hadn't made a wish.
What's the point of making a wish? A wish to whom? The universe? God? Myself?
"I wish I were remembered."
But that's not a wish. That's a diagnosis.
The flame started to weaken. Soon it would go out on its own and I wouldn't even have blown it out. Like a perfect metaphor for my life: things that should be celebrated simply extinguishing due to lack of attention.
I blew it out.
The smoke rose in a spiral and disappeared.
I grabbed the plastic spoon that came with the cake and ate straight from the container. Semi-bitter chocolate, dry cake. It wasn't even good. But I ate it all. Because throwing it away would be admitting that even I didn't give myself a decent birthday.
When I finished, it was 8:03 p.m.
I washed the spoon. Threw the packaging in the trash. Turned off the living room light.
I lay down on the bed with my phone in my hand.
And waited.
I waited until 11:59 p.m., because some people remember at the last minute. Some people send a message with two minutes left, like "almost forgot, happy birthday!" And that's fine. I'd accept it. I'd pretend I didn't mind waiting all day.
But no one sent anything.
12:00 a.m.
The day changed.
My birthday ended.
And I was officially forgotten by everyone I thought cared about me.
I locked my phone. Put it on the nightstand. Turned onto my side.
And tried to sleep thinking that tomorrow would be better.
But tomorrow will be the same.
Just without the excuse of it being my birthday.