It’s coming up faster than Gigi expected. Every year, she tricks herself into thinking, Plenty of time till my birthday again. Phew. But then, like a cruel joke, it returns—quicker than lightning, hitting her before she can brace for impact.
And her nerves? They go up in flames, wild and uncontrollable, spreading like a forest fire.
There’s a tightness in her throat, the kind that no amount of water can wash away. Her brain is overheating, circuits frying under the weight of a stupid number on a stupid calendar.
She used to think that if anything could undo her, it would be—her face heats up—Cecilia.
And in a way, she was right. Cecilia does undo her. Just differently.
Cecilia’s undoing is soft, sweet—a slow burn that makes her stomach flutter instead of knot. It’s a hand brushing hers, a teasing smirk that short-circuits her brain, a voice so smooth it sends her spiralling in a way that feels good.
But this? This is nothing like that.
There’s no Cecilia to distract her, no warmth to hold her steady. Just the cold weight of October pressing in, sinking its claws into her chest.
And she’s never felt smaller.
Cecilia notices. Of course, she does.
She always does.
Gigi can feel her gaze lingering, studying her like a puzzle with a missing piece. But Cecilia doesn’t push—not yet. She just exists in Gigi’s space, close enough to be comforting but distant enough to let her breathe.
It’s both infuriating and unbearably kind.
Gigi half expects her to ask. The words are practically buzzing in the air between them, unspoken and heavy. Instead, Cecilia just nudges a steaming mug of cocoa toward her, the scent of chocolate and cinnamon curling into the crisp autumn air.
“Drink,” Cecilia says simply, her voice gentle but firm.
Gigi stares at the mug like it’s some sort of trap. “I didn’t ask for this.”
“I know.” Cecilia shrugs, taking a sip from her own cup. “But you looked like you needed it.”
Something tightens in Gigi’s chest. She grips the mug, the warmth seeping into her fingertips, grounding her. She could argue—tell Cecilia to drop it, to stop hovering—but the words don’t come. Because the truth is, she does need it. Maybe not the cocoa itself, but this. The quiet understanding. The presence.
She takes a careful sip. The sweetness coats her tongue, and for a moment, the weight in her chest eases just a little.
Cecilia watches, patient as ever. And then, in that same casual, knowing tone, she asks, “You gonna tell me what’s eating you, or am I supposed to guess?”
Gigi stiffens, fingers curling tighter around the mug. “Nothing’s eating me.”
Cecilia hums. “Mhm.” She stretches her legs out, leaning back against the couch, looking every bit as relaxed as Gigi doesn’t feel. “So it’s just a coincidence that you get all weird every October?”
Gigi’s heart stutters. She grips the ceramic like it might hold her together. “I don’t get weird.”
Cecilia lifts a brow, the corner of her mouth twitching like she’s trying not to smile. “Babe, you spent twenty minutes reorganising the spice cabinet yesterday. That’s weird.”
Gigi groans, tipping her head back against the couch. “God, I’m that obvious?”
Cecilia just grins, nudging their knees together. “Yeah, yeah. Tell me something I don’t know.”
And just like that, the weight shifts. It’s still there, pressing against her ribs, but it’s lighter somehow—less suffocating.
Maybe it’s the cocoa. Maybe it’s Cecilia.
Maybe it’s both.
Gigi exhales slowly, staring down at the swirling liquid in her mug. The words are caught in her throat, tangled up in memories she’s spent years trying to bury. But Cecilia is here. Warm and steady and hers.
Gigi doesn’t answer right away. She keeps her eyes on the cocoa, fingers tracing the rim of the mug like it might give her something to say.
Cecilia doesn’t push. She never does. She just waits, stretching out the silence like a soft place to land.
The quiet used to feel suffocating. Now, with Cecilia, it just feels… patient. Safe.
Finally, Gigi exhales, pressing her lips together before murmuring, “I don’t like birthdays.”
Cecilia doesn’t react right away. No dramatic gasp, no prying questions. Just a slow sip of cocoa, her gaze steady, thoughtful. “Okay.”
Okay.
Gigi blinks. She doesn’t know what she expected, but it wasn’t that. “That’s it?”
Cecilia shrugs. “I mean, yeah. You don’t like birthdays. That’s fair.” She tilts her head, voice softer now. “Wanna tell me why?”
Gigi’s throat tightens. The words press up against her ribs, desperate to be heard, but they’ve been locked away so long she’s not sure she remembers how to let them out.
Cecilia doesn’t rush her. Just waits. And when Gigi doesn’t speak, she nudges their knees together again, grounding. “You don’t have to, y’know. Not if you’re not ready.”
Gigi swallows hard. She should leave it at that. She should nod and change the subject and let the moment pass.
But then Cecilia’s hand brushes against hers—just a fleeting touch, light as a whisper—and something in Gigi cracks.
“It just—” She swallows. “It never felt like a celebration. Not really.”
Cecilia doesn’t say anything, but Gigi can feel her listening.
“I used to pretend it didn’t bother me,” she continues, her voice quieter now. “Told myself it was just another day. But I guess… it just made things clearer, y’know? How alone I was. How easy it was for people to forget.”
Cecilia shifts beside her, and a second later, Gigi feels warmth—soft and steady—covering her free hand. Cecilia doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t try to pull her closer. Just holds her. Present.
Gigi lets out a shaky breath. “It’s stupid. I shouldn’t care.”
“It’s not stupid,” Cecilia says, voice gentle but firm. “It makes sense.”
Gigi hesitates, her chest tight. “I don’t want you to make a big deal out of it.”
Cecilia huffs a soft laugh. “Gigi, I literally just gave you cocoa and asked a question. If that’s a ‘big deal,’ you might need to raise your standards.”
That pulls a small, reluctant smile from Gigi. It’s barely there, but Cecilia catches it, her own lips twitching in response.
They don’t say anything for a while. The room is quiet except for the occasional clink of ceramic, the distant hum of the wind outside.
Eventually, Gigi sighs. “I just… I don’t know how to enjoy it.”
Cecilia hums in understanding. “Well.” She shifts, leaning just a little closer, like she’s letting Gigi in on a secret. “Maybe we don’t call it a birthday. Maybe it’s just another chilly October night. And maybe on chilly October nights, we drink cocoa and talk about whatever we want.”
Gigi glances at her, lips parting slightly. “That’s it?”
Cecilia nods, squeezing her hand once before pulling away to grab her own mug. “That’s it.”
Gigi watches her for a long moment, something warm and unfamiliar curling in her chest.
Maybe she’s not ready for birthdays.
But warm cocoa and cold nights?
That, she thinks, she can do.
Later, much later—October 18th.
Gigi doesn’t look at the date. She doesn’t need to. Her body remembers it well enough.
But when she steps into the living room, there’s no party, no decorations, no forced smiles. Just Cecilia, curled up on the couch, two steaming mugs waiting on the table.
She glances up, her usual smirk softened at the edges. “Hey, you.”
Gigi swallows past the lump in her throat. “Hey.”
Cecilia nudges a mug toward her, same as before. No grand gestures, no expectations. Just warmth.
Gigi takes it. The ceramic is warm against her palms, grounding.
She sits beside Cecilia, close enough that their shoulders brush, and exhales.
They don’t talk right away. Just sit, watching the October night settle in around them.
Eventually, Cecilia tilts her head, voice quiet. “Wanna tell me something I don’t know?”
Gigi considers it. Considers the past, the memories, the weight she’s carried alone for too long.
Then she exhales, eyes on the swirling cocoa in her hands.
And, for the first time, she begins.
“I was eight,” she says finally, voice quiet, careful. “And my dad was supposed to come home.”
Cecilia doesn’t react—doesn’t gasp or interrupt. Just listens, her presence steady beside her.
Gigi swallows hard. “I don’t even think I was excited. He travelled a lot for work, so it wasn’t weird for him to be gone. But he promised he’d be there that year. Swore up and down we’d do something special.” She lets out a breathy laugh, humourless. “I kept checking the clock, counting down. My mom kept saying he was just late. But I think—” Her voice falters. “I think she already knew.”
The memory feels distant and close all at once.
The way she sat at the window, waiting for headlights that never appeared.
The way her mom paced the kitchen, phone clutched too tight, voice steady but eyes glassy.
The way the cake—strawberry, her favourite—sat untouched on the counter, candles unlit.
And then—
Then the call came.
“She didn’t say much,” Gigi murmurs, fingers tightening around her mug. “Just ‘he’s not coming.’”
Not coming that night. Not coming tomorrow. Not coming back.
Gigi still remembers the hollow feeling in her chest. Like something had been scooped out and never put back.
She shrugs, like it’s not a big deal. Like it didn’t shape the way she saw birthdays forever. “After that, I stopped expecting anything. It was just easier.”
Cecilia is quiet for a moment. Then—
“That’s bullshit.”
Gigi blinks, caught off guard by the sheer certainty in her voice. She turns her head, and Cecilia is watching her, brows furrowed, lips pressed together in something that isn’t quite anger but definitely isn’t neutral.
“What?” Gigi says, half-laughing despite herself.
“It’s bullshit,” Cecilia repeats, setting her cocoa down with a soft thunk. “You were eight. You deserved better than that.”
Gigi stares at her. “I mean, yeah, but—”
“No.” Cecilia shakes her head. “No buts. Your birthday should’ve been a happy thing. It’s not supposed to be the day everything falls apart.” She leans in slightly, warmth radiating from her. “That wasn’t your fault.”
Gigi swallows, looking away. “I know that.”
“Do you?” Cecilia asks, softer now.
Gigi hates that the question sits heavy in her chest. Because maybe she doesn’t. Not really.
For years, she’s treated October like a warning sign. A countdown to something bad. Because after that birthday, bad things kept happening.
The next year, her mom forgot to buy a cake.
The year after that, her best friend didn’t text.
The year after that, she didn’t even tell anyone.
Birthdays weren’t celebrations. They were reminders. And the reminder was always the same: People leave.
But—
Cecilia hasn’t.
Cecilia’s still here, her knee brushing Gigi’s, her presence filling up the empty spaces Gigi never knew could be filled.
Gigi exhales. “I don’t know how to fix it,” she admits.
Cecilia hums, considering. Then she nudges the cocoa toward her again. “We don’t have to ‘fix’ it.”
Gigi looks up.
Cecilia smiles, soft and certain. “We can just rewrite it.”
Gigi’s chest tightens. She swallows past the lump in her throat, looking down at the cocoa in her hands.
Warm. Sweet. Steady.
Maybe she’ll never love birthdays.
But warm cocoa and cold nights?
That, she thinks, is a good place to start.