It was my birthday. I had been anticipating this day for weeks — imagining little surprises, maybe a bouquet of flowers, gifts, the kind of attention that made your chest swell with happiness. Birthdays were supposed to be special, right? Days where the world remembered you, where someone you loved made you feel like the center of their universe.
I woke up that morning with a fluttering in my chest, smiling at the ceiling, already picturing Zain walking in with something thoughtful tucked behind his back.
I went about my morning routine, brushing my hair, humming a little, enjoying the feeling of anticipation buzzing inside me. And then, I noticed something on my pillow. A folded piece of paper, delicate and neat. I sat down, heart beating a little faster, and unfolded it.
"Happy Birthday, Jen. I hope today is as wonderful as you are. Love, Z."
I held it close to my chest, a small giggle escaping me. Awwww, I whispered. It was cute, thoughtful, and heartfelt. I imagined he had planned to bring the gifts one by one, starting with this little note. Maybe he was saving the surprises for later in the day. That made sense. That had to be it.
Two hours passed. Still nothing. I tried to stay patient, thinking maybe he was caught up in something. Five hours passed. My excitement began to fray at the edges. Twelve hours passed. Still nothing. I watched the sunlight retreat, shadows stretching across my room, and a sinking feeling settled in my chest.
By the time there were only two hours left in the day, reality hit me like a bucket of cold water. He has no plans. He isn't coming through. He… forgot. Or worse… he just doesn't care.
I felt a knot in my stomach, heavy and uncomfortable. I could almost hear my own heartbeat pounding in my ears as I dialed his number. "Zain," I said as calmly as I could manage when he picked up. "We need to talk."
He sounded cheerful on the other end. "Hey! Happy Birthday, Jen! How's my girl feeling today?"
"Really?" I asked, my voice low and tight. "This is really how little you think of me?"
There was a pause. Then he said, with a chuckle, "Well… I actually had plans. I was going to cook you spaghetti."
I stared at the ceiling, feeling my hope deflate entirely. Spaghetti. Really. That was the grand birthday gesture.
"I… see," I said quietly. I didn't know what else to say. Part of me wanted to argue, to push, to scream. But another part — the part that had been quietly noting the little quirks and stinginess in our relationship — knew exactly what this meant.
"I'll make it up to you," he continued, as though that would magically erase the disappointment. "I can cook it tonight."
I shook my head, my fingers curling around the phone. "Don't bother, Zain. Honestly, if you wanted to do something, you would have done it by now."
He sounded taken aback, like he hadn't expected me to refuse. "But… I was planning—"
"No," I interrupted firmly. "I'm done waiting for you to act like you care. I'm done hoping you'll meet the expectation I've set in my head. If it mattered, you would have shown it."
There was silence on the line, and I could hear him fumbling for words. I hung up before he could say anything else. It wasn't just disappointment. It was the slow, creeping realization that the way he handled money, the little moments where he calculated every cent, the way he treated gifts and gestures like chores instead of tokens of affection — it wasn't going to change.
I sat on my bed, staring at the little note on my pillow. My chest ached. I had hoped for sweetness, for effort, for him to make me feel like someone special. Instead, I got a piece of paper and empty promises.
I thought about all the little gifts I had given him over the past few months — the books, the snacks, the coffee, the gadgets, the six-hundred-dollar watch. I had given them freely, out of genuine affection. I had never asked for reimbursement, never tallied them in my head, never even reminded him of them.
And yet, on my birthday — a day that should have been just for me — he hadn't lifted a finger beyond a note that felt half-hearted at best. The gap between our generosity, between the way I loved and the way he treated even small gestures, felt painfully wide.
By the time night fell, the day was nearly over. I looked at the city lights twinkling through my window, feeling a combination of sadness and clarity. I deserved more than excuses and calculated gestures. I deserved someone who wouldn't need reminders to care. Someone who understood that love wasn't about balancing the books or counting pennies.
I decided then and there that I wouldn't let this disappointment define me. I wouldn't cry over a day that had been marred by someone else's lack of effort. I would take my love, my energy, and my care, and give it where it would be appreciated — someone who truly understood that acts of love were meant to be shared freely, without calculations or conditions.
That night, as the city settled into quiet, I sat on my bed and made a promise to myself: I would stop expecting Zain to act like a boyfriend should. I would stop hoping he would surprise me or show me that I mattered. If he wanted to love me, he would. If he didn't… well, then I would no longer waste my heart trying to convince him otherwise.
And with that, I turned off my bedside lamp, hugged the note to my chest one last time, and whispered to the empty room, "Next year, I'll do better… for me."