The day I turned thirty-five was supposed to be a small kind of miracle.
I hadn’t wished for anything grand — no surprise party, no mountain of gifts — only an evening spent with those who mattered most to me.
It had been so long since I’d felt that familiar warmth that only close friends can bring. We had all grown busy, our gatherings fewer, but that made every meeting more precious.
That’s why I decided that, this time, I would make the evening special — even if only for a few fleeting hours, to feel together again.
I woke up early. The pale November light barely filtered through the curtains, yet something electric floated in the air. I brewed a pot of tea and, as the steam curled upward, I thought about what I would prepare.
The menu was a collection of their favorites: roasted chicken glazed with orange, garlic potatoes, fresh bread still warm from the oven, and, of course, my signature chocolate cake — the one they always asked me to bake.
At the market, I moved slowly through the aisles, choosing every ingredient with care.
The earthy scent of vegetables, the sweetness of ripe fruit, the warmth of newly baked loaves — everything seemed somehow brighter, because I knew for whom I was cooking.
From the flower shop, I picked up a bunch of yellow tulips — even though they teased me every time for buying them in November, calling them “summer flowers.”
By the afternoon, my apartment was filled with the fragrance of food and spice. The music hummed softly in the background as I dressed the table with quiet attention: a white linen cloth, polished wine glasses, small candles beside each setting.
Behind every chair, I placed a photograph — snapshots of old trips, laughter, shared stories. I wanted them to walk in and feel how much they meant to me.
They were expected at six. By half-past five, everything was ready — only the chicken still roasting in the oven.
I slipped into my favorite blue dress and paused before the mirror. There were faint shadows under my eyes, but the smile looking back at me felt genuine.
I thought maybe tonight I’d rediscover the closeness we had somehow lost — that quiet, invisible thread that once bound us.
When the clock struck six, my heart stumbled for a beat. I went to the window, peered down the dim street — no one.
“Probably traffic,” I told myself. It was Friday after all, the city always overflowing at this hour. I poured myself a glass of wine and sat on the couch. The candles shimmered softly, throwing gold onto the walls.
Ten minutes. Twenty. Nothing.
By a quarter past six, I was checking the clock every few seconds. I typed a quick message in our group chat: “Hey, is everything alright? Where are you guys?”
No reply.
At six-thirty, I wrote again: “At least text if you’re running late. Dinner’s almost ready!”
Silence.
The candles had begun to shrink. The food cooled. The soup formed a thin film on top. The music that had felt comforting earlier now felt sharp, almost mocking.
I started calling them — one by one. Every line rang out, unanswered.
By eight, the street outside was quiet, only the sound of passing cars breaking the stillness. The wine stood untouched on the table; the silverware caught the candlelight. Everything was prepared — except them.
I waited longer. Every minute pressed heavier against my chest. My thoughts tangled and darkened.
“Maybe they forgot? Or I said the wrong date? Or maybe… maybe I just don’t matter anymore?”
The idea cut through me like ice. How many times had I been there for them — listening late into the night, comforting through tears, showing up when no one else did? And now, when I needed them, no one came.
After nine, I stood up and blew out the candles. The room fell into shadow, the city’s glow reflecting faintly through the glass. The silence was so deep I could hear my own heartbeat echo in it.
I checked my phone again. Still nothing.
By ten, I sat back at the table and stared at the empty places. The glasses glinted faintly in the darkness. The music had stopped; only the hum of the refrigerator filled the air.
I took a sip of wine. It tasted bitter now. I set the glass down and buried my face in my hands. The tears came quietly, falling one after another. I don’t remember when I drifted into sleep.
Around midnight, my phone buzzed. My sister’s name blinked on the screen. Groggy, I answered. — Hey… why are you awake so late?
Her voice trembled. — Have you seen the news?
— What news?
A pause. Then, barely a whisper: — There was an accident… on the highway. Your friends… I think it was them.
My body froze. The words reached me slowly, piece by piece, but their meaning crashed all at once.
I opened my laptop and pulled up the news site. The headline read: “Severe collision on M3 highway. Three dead, one critically injured.”
The image showed a twisted wreck of metal. Only the color gave it away — that deep blue I’d seen countless times when they arrived somewhere together.
I couldn’t cry. Couldn’t breathe. I just stared, until the letters blurred on the screen.
They were coming to me. For my birthday.
My hands shook, the phone slipped from my grasp. The glass tipped, spilling red wine across the table. The smell was sweet and nauseating.
I didn’t sleep that night. The steady drip of the kitchen faucet filled the silence. The air was heavy with the scent of food that no longer felt inviting — it smelled like something gone wrong, something fading.
The candles had melted into wax puddles, the tulips had bowed their heads.
When dawn came, light slid through the blinds. Everything looked still — untouched — and yet the world had changed completely.
For days, I barely ate, barely spoke. Their faces lingered in every reflection, their laughter echoing in corners, their last unread messages staring up from my phone screen.
Again and again, I replayed that evening in my mind — how I thought they’d forgotten me, how I grew angry, how I didn’t know. The guilt hollowed me out from within.
A week later, I drove to the place where it had happened. Flowers and candles lined the roadside. I knelt down and placed three tulips there — the same kind I’d bought that morning.
The wind was cold, yet it wrapped around me with a strange warmth, as if they were near, watching quietly.
Since then, I don’t celebrate birthdays anymore. I don’t cook, I don’t decorate. I just sit by the window, light three candles, and play that same soft song.
And sometimes, in the flickering shadows of the flames, I almost see them — laughing as they step through the door, rain dripping from their coats, filling the room again with life.
Then the candlelight trembles, and I am alone once more. But it no longer hurts the same way. Because deep down, I know — somewhere, somehow, they’re still on their way to me.
And maybe, one day, they’ll arrive.
