It was my 13th birthday—an occasion that’s supposed to be all balloons, cake, and people pretending they care. But for me? It felt like the universe’s sneaky little way of reminding me that surviving life is a full-contact sport with no gloves and absolutely zero referees. Past birthdays had been a parade of awkward silences, disappointing gifts, and my brain throwing temper tantrums that could rival any toddler’s meltdown. So yeah, I wasn’t holding my breath for anything magical this year. Maybe, just maybe, it’d be marginally less terrible than the last one. But don’t count on it.
Toby was the first to show up. He arrived lugging a pizza box that looked like it had been dragged through a war zone and back. But hey, pizza’s pizza, right? Even if the box had seen better days, the promise
