By daily 
The day started like any other—quiet, with the soft rays of morning sunlight slipping through the window. I sat up slowly, feeling the familiar heaviness in my body. It’s strange how birthdays used to feel like magic, like a day full of endless possibilities. But today, everything feels different. I’m seriously ill, and the weight of that truth hangs over me like a shadow.
I’ve come to terms with it, I think. The doctors have told me all they can, and I’ve had time to reflect, to make peace with things. But still, today is my birthday, and I can’t help but feel that small, aching hope in my chest—hoping that someone, anyone, would remember, would bless me, would say, “Happy birthday. You’re going to be okay.”
But the hours pass, and the silence grows louder. No messages. No phone calls. No knock at the door. I stare at my phone, willing it to light up with a simple “Thinking of you.” Nothing comes.