Mark sat on the floor of his dark apartment, the only light in the room coming from a single candle standing on top of a small birthday cake. The flame flickered, casting weak shadows across the empty space. The walls were bare. The furniture, minimal. Silence filled the air, heavy and still.

  It was his 35th birthday.

  He hadn’t told anyone. Not that there was anyone to tell. His phone was on silent, facedown on the kitchen counter. He hadn’t looked at it all day. He didn’t want to. He told himself he preferred it that way.

  Across from him on the floor sat a small box, wrapped in old, wrinkled paper. A present he had given himself last year, hoping he wouldn’t need to do the same this year. But here it was, still unopened, right where he had left it—behind some books, gathering dust.

  He picked it up slowly, brushing off the faint layer of dirt. There was a note taped to the top, in his own handwriting:

  "For next year. Things will be better."

  He read it twice. Then a third time.

  He didn’t laugh. He didn’t cry either. Just stared at it, like it belonged to a different person.

  Mark lit the candle on the cake. No happy birthday song. No claps. No one calling out his name. Just the small crackle of wax melting and the hum of the refrigerator in the background.

  He sat there for a while. Minutes? Hours? He wasn’t sure. The cake stayed untouched. He didn’t feel hungry.

  Finally, he opened the present. Inside was a worn-out paperback book and a folded piece of paper.

  The paper had a list:

  Make one new friend

  Go to the gym again

  Call mom

  Try therapy

  Don’t spend another birthday like this

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  He folded the paper back and put it inside the book. He closed the box again and pushed it aside.

  Then he blew out the candle. Darkness returned. The room felt even emptier than before.

  Mark sat still in the dark, the candle smoke curling into the air like a ghost. He stared into the empty space in front of him, and then… something shifted.

  He didn’t move, but suddenly, the silence was broken.

  Laughter.

  Faint at first—like a memory echoing from somewhere deep. Then louder. Familiar voices. Plates clinking. Music. The kind they used to play at his old birthday parties when he was a kid. That same cheesy upbeat tune.

  His eyes darted around the room. The walls weren’t bare anymore. Balloons floated by the ceiling, some half-deflated, others bright and full of life. Streamers stretched across the corners of the room. The floor was crowded—feet moving, people laughing, drinks being passed around.

  There was his mother, standing near the kitchen, smiling softly, just like she used to. His old college friends huddled on the couch, telling dumb jokes and pretending to toast him with empty cups. Even Sarah was there—his ex—smiling like none of the fights had ever happened. His dad, long gone now, was in the corner fiddling with the old stereo, trying to make it louder.

  Mark didn't say anything. He couldn’t. He just watched.

  He reached out, slowly, almost scared. His fingers passed through the nearest balloon. No resistance. Just air. It popped without sound.

  But the illusion didn’t fade.

  One of his friends—a version of them—walked over and handed him a paper plate with a slice of cake. It was the same flavor he had in front of him, except it looked fresh, like it had just come from the bakery.

  They all started singing. Off-key. Loud. Messy. Just like the old days.

  "Happy birthday to you..."

  Mark’s lip trembled.

  He stood up, just to feel like he belonged in the room again. Just to pretend, for a second, that they were really there. He tried to speak—tried to say thank you, or just something—but his throat tightened.

  He blinked once.

  The lights disappeared.

  The music stopped.

  Everyone vanished.

  He was standing in the dark again. Alone. The real cake sat in front of him, untouched, slightly melted from the heat of the candle.

  The box with last year’s present lay open on the floor. Silent. Still.

  Mark slowly sat back down.

  And whispered to no one:

  “Thanks for coming.”

  Mark sat in the silence once more. No echoes of laughter now. Just the soft hum of the fridge and the slow drip from the kitchen faucet. The fake party had faded like smoke. A cruel trick of a tired mind.

  He reached under the couch and pulled out a small, metal box. The lock had long since broken—he never bothered to fix it. Inside, wrapped in an old cloth, was a revolver. Cold. Heavy.

  Six chambers.

  He took a deep breath as he spun the cylinder, then reached for a single bullet he had taped under the lid. He stared at it for a long time, as if waiting for it to stop being real. But it stayed.

  He loaded it.

  Snapped the cylinder back into place.

  "One for thirty-five," he muttered to himself, voice dry. No drama. No shaking hands. Just tired. A strange kind of calm washed over him, like this wasn’t a cry for help or a final statement—just a pause. A coin toss. A moment.

  He held the revolver to his temple. His finger rested on the trigger.

  One spin. One pull.

  Click.

  Silence.

  He lowered the gun, slowly. No tears. No sigh of relief. Just… stillness.

  He placed it back in the box, shut the lid, and pushed it under the couch again.

  Mark leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling.

  He was still here.

  And somehow, that felt heavier than if he hadn’t been.

  Mark didn’t bother turning on the lights. He didn’t clean up the cake, or the open box, or the paper with last year’s promises.

  He just stood up, walked to his bed, and let himself fall onto it without changing clothes. The room was cold, but he didn’t notice. He pulled his pillow close, clutching it like it was the only warm thing left in the world.

  Laying on his side, he stared into the darkness. His lips moved, almost on their own.

  “Happy birthday… to me…” he whispered.

  The words cracked halfway through, barely making a sound. But he kept going, even if his voice shook.

  “Happy birthday… dear Mark…”

  He hugged the pillow tighter.

  “Happy birthday… to me…”

  No applause. No candlelight. Just the quiet creak of the mattress and the way the shadows stretched across the wall.

  Then he closed his eyes, still holding on to that pillow like it might keep him from falling apart.

  And finally, he let sleep take him. Alone, in the dark. Another year survived. Just barely.