Just Another Day

They say it’s your day—

like that means something

you’re supposed to feel.

Like candles and wishes

are enough

to make it matter.

But it comes

like any other morning—

quiet,

unremarkable,

the same weight

waiting for you

before your feet

hit the floor.

Messages trickle in—

“happy birthday,”

short, bright,

easy to send.

You read them,

type back something grateful,

something light,

something that doesn’t say

how it actually feels.

Because how do you explain

that another year

doesn’t feel like a celebration?

That it feels like time passing

without asking

if you’re ready for it.

Like you’re still

the same person

trying to figure things out—

just older,

just more aware

of what didn’t turn out

the way you thought it would.

There’s no party

for that.

No candles

for the things you lost,

the versions of yourself

that didn’t make it here.

So the day moves on—

like it always does.

And you move with it,

smiling when you need to,

thanking people

for remembering.

But deep down,

it doesn’t feel like yours.

It just feels

like another day

you survived.