I turned eighteen today.
It’s supposed to be a milestone—freedom, adulthood, the beginning of everything. I waited for it like everyone else does. I imagined waking up to a phone full of messages, notifications lighting up with “Happy Birthday!” and maybe even a surprise or two. But the screen stayed silent.
No calls. No texts. No posts. Nothing.
I sat at the kitchen table with a slice of cake I bought for myself, a single candle flickering in the dim light. I lit it, not because I believed in wishes, but because I didn’t know what else to do. I stared at the flame, wondering what I was really supposed to feel. Wasn’t this day supposed to be special?
But instead of joy, there was just an empty ache.
I didn’t want gifts or a party. I just wanted to be remembered. A simple “happy birthday” would’ve been enough. I tried not to cry. I told myself it didn’t matter—that maybe people were busy, that maybe they’d remember tomorrow.
Still, the silence was loud.
But even in that loneliness, something changed. I realized that if no one else celebrated me, I would. I went for a walk under the evening sky. I bought myself a small gift, wrapped it with my own hands. I played my favorite music loud and danced alone in my room.
It wasn’t the birthday I dreamed of. But it was real. And maybe that’s enough for now.
Because I’m still here. I’m still growing. And even if no one said it—I’ll say it to myself:
Happy 18th birthday. You made it. And that matters.
