Birthdays never really end up the way I plan them to be.
Your birthday was no exception. I was planning to celebrate it by myself,
probably eat a slice of cake and mope about you not liking me. Basically the
same things I was doing in your past birthdays.
This year was different, though. It’s not that I didn’t want
to celebrate your birthday, or that today wasn’t special. It’s just that today
felt ordinary, and I was rushing in and out of classrooms to bother about
feelings that should have been dead long ago.
I take this as a sign from the universe telling me that you
are no longer worth the cheesy blogposts, tweets, or the poems that I write.
Maybe this is finally the time where I realize that I am finally over you
because suddenly your birthday does not feel like a holiday.
So congratulations on being nineteen and travelling around
the world and being ridiculously handsome. But I guess I’d have to congratulate
myself too. I guess, probably, I’ve moved past you.
This calls for some cake.
