Chapter 2: The Last Birthday Wish

But after I posted it, besides a few likes from friends, Mason commented too. Just two words: “Dork alert.”

I stared at the notification, half laughing, half cringing. Classic Mason—never letting me have the last word. But there was something off about it this time, a weird edge that made my stomach twist.

…

My hand shook. I sniffled and deleted the post. Then I opened our chat and messaged him:

I hesitated over the keyboard, typing and deleting, my hands cold and my heart pounding. I wanted to say the right thing, but nothing felt right. I blinked back tears, wishing I could just talk to him in person instead of through a screen.

“Mason, are you mad?”

“Did I… upset you again?”

“Say something, Mason…”

But even by 1:30 in the morning, he still hadn’t replied. I kept checking my phone, rereading the messages, hoping for that little typing bubble to pop up.

I lay in bed, phone pressed to my chest, watching the minutes crawl by. Every buzz made my heart leap, but it was never him. I scrolled through old messages, rereading the times he’d called me silly or sent a quick “goodnight.” Now, the silence was like a heavy blanket, making it hard to breathe.

He never replied.

The next morning, I got up early and went to the studio to find Mason. Of course, he wasn’t there. The drawing on his easel was already more than half-finished, so he’d clearly come in late last night to paint. I pictured him alone in the quiet, hunched over the paper, the smell of paint and charcoal in the air.

The room still smelled faintly of turpentine and charcoal, sunlight filtering through the windows and making the dust sparkle. I ran my fingers along the edge of his desk, wishing he’d walk in and break the spell—anything to make it feel less empty.

I sat in his seat. Mason always used charcoal for his sketches—it was quick for drafting and great for strong contrasts. He was crazy talented, and sitting there, I felt a weird mix of awe and sadness. I tried to find some clue in his unfinished work, but all I got was a blur of charcoal dust and smudged lines.

I traced the marks he’d left behind, wondering what he’d been thinking as he drew. The strokes were bold, confident—so different from the way I felt inside, all shaky and unsure. My fingers came away dusty, and I wiped them on my jeans, wishing I could just understand him.

Suddenly, a shadow fell over me. Mason wrapped an arm around me from behind, reaching out with a tissue to blend the drawing. He leaned over, close enough that I could feel his breath on my cheek, but he kept his eyes on the sketch, not me.

His presence was grounding, solid. I breathed in the subtle scent of his cologne, felt the warmth radiating from him. He moved with quiet purpose, like he was trying to fix something he couldn’t quite put into words.

“Mason, why didn’t you reply to my messages last night…?” I tugged gently at his sleeve, my voice barely above a whisper.

He looked down at me. “Nothing. I was just having a rough time.”

His voice was low, almost apologetic. I noticed the dark circles under his eyes, the way his gaze drifted, unfocused, like he hadn’t really slept at all.

…

His features were sharply defined, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes full of frustration and something else I couldn’t quite name. He looked like he wanted to say more, but just couldn’t.

I reached for his hand, squeezing it gently. “I’m here,” I whispered, hoping he’d feel it. He squeezed back, just for a second, fingers lingering before he pulled away to focus on his sketch, leaving my hand empty and cold.

I can’t even remember when Mason started acting this way. He used to be so gentle. He still remembers all my little preferences—what I like to eat, what I don’t, picks out gifts for our anniversaries, reminds me not to eat ice cream during my period. But he doesn’t smile at me anymore, and his temper’s gotten worse. I don’t know what’s changed these past few years. Sometimes I think about the last time he laughed with me, or the last time he looked at me like I was the only one in the room. I wonder if he still wants to be with me at all.

Sometimes I wonder if it’s just life getting in the way—assignments, deadlines, all the pressure to be perfect. Or maybe we’ve both changed, growing into people we didn’t expect. I miss the boy who’d sneak snacks into the library for me, who’d draw little hearts on my napkins at lunch, who’d tease me about my messy hair. Now, it feels like we’re just playing parts, too scared to say what we’re really feeling.

My friends say this is probably the “seven-year itch.” But we haven’t even been together that long, and he never used to be like this. I just can’t figure it out. Sometimes I replay old conversations in my head, looking for the moment everything shifted, but I always come up empty.

They say college changes people, but I never thought it would change us. Sometimes, I catch my reflection in the studio window and wonder if I’m still the same girl he fell for, or if I’m just clinging to the memory of who we used to be.

Mason rents an apartment off campus. Sometimes I go to see him, like today. He opens the door, and we just stare at each other for a second, both of us waiting for the other to say something. I know I’ve gotten so used to chasing after him, always trying to make things right, even when I don’t know what I did wrong.

The hallway always smells like old wood and laundry detergent. He stands there in his socks, hair sticking up, looking like he just woke up from a nap. The silence between us is heavy and weirdly comfortable, like we’re both used to it by now.

“Mason, the dorm showers are busted again.”

He steps aside to let me in, tossing my slippers at me without a word. “Do whatever you want,” he says, rolling his eyes a little, but I catch the tiniest shrug. I know he’s already set out a towel for me in the bathroom, just like always.

There’s a routine to our visits—me slipping off my shoes, him pretending not to watch as I wander around his tiny apartment, fingers brushing over the cluttered desk, the warmth of the place. I always notice the way his things are arranged, the little messes he leaves behind.

…

Most of the time, that’s how things are between us—not fighting, but not exactly warm, either. There’s nothing to argue about, but it isn’t a cold war. We move around each other like roommates more than lovers—sharing space, barely talking. Sometimes I catch him watching me from the corner of his eye, but when I look up, he’s already turned away. It’s like we’re both waiting for something to break the silence, but neither of us knows how to start.

Tomorrow is Saturday. When there are no classes, he usually brings his easel home to paint. On the easel is his new work—a short-haired girl. He’s already used the eraser to bring out the light and shadow, most of her three-quarter profile backlit, and he gives her this mysterious, almost sacred glow.

The living room smells like paint thinner and coffee. I watch him work from the couch, knees hugged to my chest. The way he studies the canvas, lost in his own world, makes me feel both proud and invisible at the same time. Sometimes I wonder if he ever looks at me with that same focus.

I couldn’t help but wonder how his eyes moved over the girl’s face. During those hours, was there only her in his world? Was I just background noise?

I bit my lip, jealousy prickling beneath my skin. I knew it was silly—she was just a figure on a canvas—but I couldn’t help but wonder if he saw something in her that he didn’t see in me anymore. I almost laughed at myself, but the feeling stayed.

“Seen enough?” he asked, gaze cold and impatient. “She’s not as pretty as you. Go take a shower.”

He said it without looking up, but I caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Almost a compliment, wrapped in his usual bluntness. I rolled my eyes, but I grinned as I grabbed my things and headed to the bathroom, muttering, “Thanks, I guess.”

Mason’s apartment is a one-bedroom, one-living room setup—no way to sleep alone. Early summer was creeping in, the breeze coming through the open window, city sounds drifting up. Even with just a thin quilt, it wasn’t hot. I slept in his bed while he painted outside. The door wasn’t closed all the way, and a sliver of warm light cut across the floor. I stared at that line of light, listening to the traffic, and drifted off.

The city noise faded, replaced by the steady rhythm of his pencil on paper. I curled up under his quilt, breathing in the clean, soapy scent of his detergent. The warmth of his presence lingered, even from the other room, and I felt safe for the first time in days.

For some reason, I didn’t sleep well that night. I woke up quickly, feeling like I’d only dozed off for a bit. When I sat up, the clock by the bed read 3:16 a.m. The light outside was still on. I just sat there, listening to the sound of his pen gliding across the paper in the stillness of the night. I don’t know how long I listened before I heard the sound of him packing up and standing. Finally, the light went out.

There was something comforting about the rhythm of his work—steady, methodical. I heard the scrape of his chair, the crumple of paper, the soft click as he turned off the lamp. I pulled the blanket tighter, feeling small and strangely content.

Mason is actually pretty slender. I’ve hugged his waist before—it’s firm and feels nice. He came into the room and, seeing I was awake, paused in the doorway. Only the scattered lights from outside and the moon let us see each other’s faces. I always felt like there was something hidden in his eyes, a secret flicker of emotion I could never quite catch.

He walked over, his shadow stretching across the bed, then bent down and pulled me into his arms. The mattress dipped under his weight. His short hair brushed my cheek, tickling a little. He held me tight—so tight that in the darkness, I could hear both our hearts pounding.

His embrace was desperate, almost frantic. I clung to him, burying my face in his chest, feeling his heartbeat racing against my cheek. For a moment, everything else melted away—the doubts, the distance, the fear. It was just us, breathing in the dark.

“What’s wrong, Mason?”

I tilted my head in his embrace, unable to see his face. He told me not to cry anymore. But it was him who was crying. I could feel my back dampen, hear the tremor in his voice. He hugged me as if he wanted to press me into his chest, as if I might disappear at any moment.

His breath hitched, and I felt a hot tear slide down my neck. I held him tighter, wishing I could take away whatever pain was eating at him. The silence between us was heavy, full of things we’d never said.

“I really…”

His voice was low and hoarse, thick with emotion, like he was stirring up a still pond.

“I really love you so much.”

He said it through clenched teeth, voice choked with tears.

I looked up. The night was long and silent. Pale moonlight streamed in through the window.

I brushed a tear from his cheek, whispering, “I love you too, Mason.” The words felt small in the quiet, but they hung between us like a fragile promise. We lay there for a while, tangled together, letting the world outside fade away, just the hum of the city and the sound of our breathing.

Mason’s birthday was coming soon. Every year, we always spent each other’s birthdays together. But this year, he had a piece going to an out-of-town exhibition. He left a couple of days early. I’d wanted to go with him, but a group project from my professor kept me at school.