By daily 
The table is covered with everything I could ever want—cakes, cookies, pies, and every delicious dish imaginable. The aroma fills the air, rich and warm, but there’s an unsettling quietness that hangs over the room. The candles flicker softly, waiting to be blown out, but no one is here to sing for me, no voices to cheer, no laughter to fill the silence.
I sit at the head of the table, looking at the feast before me. I should be happy, right? So much food, so much sweetness. But the emptiness inside me feels heavier than any meal I could eat today. I glance at the empty chairs around me, each one a reminder of the friends who aren’t here, of the smiles I wish I could see.
Why didn’t anyone come?
I know the answer, though it hurts to admit. I’m not perfect. I’ve always felt that way, like there’s something wrong with me. Maybe I’m too quiet, too awkward, too strange. Maybe I’m not the kind of person others want to be around. And here I am, on my own birthday, surrounded by food, but no one to share it with.