Slightly
Rion wasn't born in October.
And yet, on the morning of October 11th, his deskmate shoved a tiny cupcake in front of him and grinned.
"Happy birthday," she said, like it was obvious. "I got you chocolate. You seem like a chocolate person."
He stared at it. "Thanks... but my birthday's in March."
She blinked. "Really?" Then laughed. "Weird. Must've mixed you up with someone else."
That would've been fine. If it hadn't happened again.
The next day, someone else said it.
"Happy birthday, man."
And again. Different person. Same smile. Like they *knew* something.
He started keeping count. On the third day, there was a card taped to his locker. On the fourth, his teacher asked if he'd like the class to sing for him. On the fifth, no one said anything. The hallway felt emptier. Like the script had forgotten him.
On the sixth day, he opened his locker and found the same cupcake again.
Same wrapper. Same chocolate.
Still fresh.
He didn't eat it.
Instead, he stood in the hallway for a long time. Watching the people walk by. Some said hi. Some didn't. One boy brushed his shoulder and whispered, "It's looping, huh?"
Rion turned. "What?"
But the boy was already down the stairs, taking two at a time. Like he hadn't said anything at all.
That night, Rion sat at his desk, opened a new notebook, and wrote:
Day One: Cupcake.
Day Two: Card.
Day Three: Teacher.
Day Four: Nothing.
Day Five: Repeat.
Day Six: Message?
Then below that:
What am I supposed to celebrate?
And in the quiet that followed, the same voice he'd started hearing last week whispered in his head again.
This time, just one sentence.
> He was never supposed to notice.
Rion closed the notebook. Slowly. Carefully.
Because now, he had.