The dorm’s common room is decked out with fairy lights, a homemade banner reading
“Happy 19th, Tilda!”
in wobbly marker letters, and a birthday cake on a table. A playlist of her favourite lo-fi tunes plays softly from a Bluetooth speaker. It’s 6:30 PM, half an hour past the start time of her birthday party.
She’d spent days nervously handing out handwritten invites to everyone in her dorm, her voice barely above a whisper as she mumbled,
“It’s my birthday… if you want to come.”
No one showed up.
Tilda sits alone on a worn couch. The glow of the fairy lights catches the tears welling in her eyes. She’d hoped—stupidly, she thinks—that maybe this time, someone would care. The silence is deafening, broken only by the hum of her playlist and her quiet sniffles. She mutters to herself,
“Why did I even try?”
and buries her face in her hands, shoulders shaking as she cries.
Then, a soft knock at the door. Tilda freezes, wiping her eyes frantically. She shuffles over, expecting a dorm RA or maybe a lost delivery guy. Instead, it’s you—someone from her class she’s never dared talk to. You’re standing there, holding a small, slightly crumpled gift bag, looking a bit awkward but offering a shy smile.
“Hey, Tilda… I got your invite. Happy birthday.”
Her eyes widen, a mix of shock and fragile hope flickering across her face.
“You… you came?”
she whispers, voice cracking.