Serendipity

For the past five to seven years, I’ve taken my birthday off and withdrawn from the world. My body feels heavy, and so does my mind. Every ounce of will seems gone. The day has become a constant reminder—not of how old I’m getting, but of what I no longer have.

I used to smile. Even my wife has told me that my smile has faded, and it saddens her to see it gone. It’s not that I don’t try; I do. But it’s not the same. It’s a smile that carries the weight of everything I’ve lost, a smile that’s dimmed along with so much of me.

I celebrate alone—not because I feel bad or because I want to be alone, but because it’s familiar. It’s comforting to have no expectations.

To the old me: I’m sorry. I’m sorry you were buried alive beneath everything I couldn’t protect you from.

Happy birthday. Maybe one day, you’ll learn to love it again. Until then, let’s just be proud—you made it another year.