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You carried the cake box against your chest as if a sudden breeze might steal it from your hands. It was still warm, you’d baked it that morning, humming absentmindedly in the kitchen the way you always did when you were nervous.
He used to lean on the counter, watching you with that soft, amused look, pretending he wasn’t waiting for you to offer him a taste.
The walk to your spot felt longer today. The grass brushed at your ankles, the air cool enough to raise goosebumps, yet you kept going, clutching the cake like it was something fragile and precious. Maybe it was.
You laid the blanket out slowly, corners tugged straight the way he always insisted.
“Presentation matters, babe,” he once said, stealing a cookie long before they’d cooled. “We’re classy people.”
You’d laughed, calling him a liar, and he’d winked at you like he agreed.
Now, alone on the grass, you unpacked everything you’d made, the sweets he pretended not to crave, the little snacks he’d steal when he thought you weren’t looking. You arranged them carefully, almost reverently, as if he might pop out from behind a tree and call you dramatic.
Finally, you opened the cake box. The frosting had smeared slightly in the corner, and you sighed, reaching for the spatula you brought. You smoothed the frosting with trembling hands, steadying your breath. Your tune slipped out again, that silly little melody he used to tease you for.
“Aww, are you serenading the cake?” he'd say, tapping your cheek with floury fingers and pouting before saying “How come you don’t do that for me?”
You swallowed, blinking back the memory.
The blanket spread neatly across the grass, sweets arranged like offerings under the amber light of late afternoon. “Bet you’ll say I overdid it,” you whispered, picturing the way he’d crouch beside you, blindfold askew, grin soft and crooked.
The candles sat beside the cake, unlit for now, like tiny promises waiting for someone who would walk up behind you and cover your eyes with warm hands.
You pictured him crouching beside you exactly the way he always did, bending down with unnecessary flair, knees spread, hands on them, leaning in close like he couldn’t stand being even a breath away.
His blindfold sat crooked, like he’d pushed it up in a hurry just to see you better. His pale lashes peeked under the edge of the fabric, and even in memory, that tiny detail made your chest ache.
He’d tilt his head, grin already forming that soft, mischievous curl that started on one side and grew until it took over his entire expression.
“Wow,” he’d say, dragging out the word as if introducing a grand revelation. “You really went all out, huh?”
He’d gesture at the sweets, the blanket, the cake. a sweeping motion like he was presenting a stage play instead of a picnic.
Then he’d lean so close your shoulders would brush, and he’d lower his voice conspiratorially.
“Be honest,” he’d whisper, lips already twitching. “Is this for me… or are you just hungry again?”
You laughed quietly, involuntarily, the sound catching in your throat. “Both,” you murmured, answering the phantom that felt too real, too close.
In your mind, he lit up instantly, grin breaking wide open.
“Aww, you hear that? She admits it!” he’d announce to absolutely no one, throwing a hand dramatically over his heart. “My beloved bakes for me, truly, romance isn’t dead.”
He’d reach toward the cake without even pretending to hesitate.
“Hold still,” you’d scold, knowing it wouldn’t matter.
And it didn’t. In the memory, he swiped his finger right across the frosting with the same shameless boldness that always made you want to smack him and kiss him at the same time.
He lifted the frosting to his lips, overacting every movement, eyebrows raised, mouth forming an exaggerated “mmm,” swaying side to side in exaggerated approval.
“Oh wow,” he’d gasp dramatically, licking the tip of his finger clean. “This is incredible. Amazing. Life-changing. Truly, you are blessed to have me taste-testing for you.”
You could almost hear the teasing lilt in his voice, the way he always tried to coax a smile out of you, even on the days he knew you were tired.
“Best birthday ever,” he’d declare, puffing out his chest proudly. “And yes, I’m counting the year I got fifty-seven blindfolds from my students. This beats that.”
He’d lean closer, tapping your chin lightly with the same frosting-stained finger.
“Also… did you make all this just because you miss me?”
He’d smirk, softer now, less dramatic, but infinitely more dangerous.
“It’s okay if you do. I’d miss me too.”
And the imagined warmth of him pressed against you felt so vivid you had to stop yourself from leaning into it.
You remembered last year, the way he showed up late for your birthday with the subtlety of a natural disaster. You’d been sitting on the couch, half-annoyed, half-worried, gripping your phone like a lifeline. Then the door slid open so hard it rattled the frame.
“SURPRISE!” he’d shouted, even though you were staring right at him.
He’d stood there, arms full, no, overflowing, with bags and boxes wrapped in ridiculously decorated paper. One of them slipped, and he caught it and proceeded to pretended that it was intentional.
“I come bearing treasures,” he’d declared, stepping inside like a hero returning from a quest.
“Gorgeous, aren’t they? Almost as gorgeous as me,” he said, batting his lashes and expecting you to agree immediately.
He gasped, clutching his chest like your words had physically wounded him. “Didn’t ask? Didn’t ask?!” His grin stretched impossibly wide, blindfold tilted as one brow rose. “How could you say that? Me showing up like this, the absolute pinnacle of charm and generosity, and you act like it’s… optional?”
He gestured at the pile of presents with a dramatic sweep of his arm. “Clearly, I am the gift, obviously. These—” he nudged the mountain of bags with his foot, “—are simply bonus blessings, perfectly curated to enhance your happiness and admiration for yours truly.”
Leaning closer, he lowered his voice to a teasing whisper, eyes sparkling through the blindfold.
“Honestly… I could’ve just kissed you, taken you right then and there, and that would’ve been enough as the perfect gift. But noooooo… I just had to go all out for my pretty little wife. Magnificent. Memorable. Unforgettable. Me.”
Then, with a final flourish, he tilted his head and batted his lashes like a master of charm. “So… admit it. You’re impressed, right? Applause is mandatory.”
You rolled your eyes so hard your head tilted, but he only grinned wider, the kind of grin that meant he was seconds from melting your irritation like butter.
He set the bags down, then stepped forward, leaning in just enough for his breath to ghost your ear. His voice dropped to that soft, playful murmur he only used when he wanted to be sincere without looking vulnerable.
“Still,” he whispered, fingers brushing lightly along your jaw, “I like spoiling you.”
You’d felt your cheeks heat, and he’d seen it, of course he had. He’d beamed at you like he won a prize, ruffled your hair, and said, “See? Best reaction. Worth being late.”
You could almost hear him now, the warm lilt of his laugh, the lazy affection in his voice, the way he dragged syllables when he was teasing just to see you crack.
But the memory burned too bright, sharp around the edges, cruel in its contrast to the silence that surrounded you now, a silence so complete it felt intentional, like it was trying to swallow every trace of him the moment you remembered it.
You lit the candles one by one, shielding the tiny flames with your hand as the breeze swept through the grass. The warm glow pooled over the frosting, turning the cake into something almost sacred, as if the light itself remembered him.
“Happy birthday, Satoru,” you murmured, steady and gentle, like saying it too loudly might break something fragile in the air.
If he were here, he’d probably snort, tilt his head, and grin. “Obviously my birthday’s the best with you here… but fine, thanks, sweetheart.”
Too smug. Too warm. Too him.
A small gust brushed past you then, cool, playful, curling around your hair like familiar fingers. It rustled the blanket, tugged at the corner of a napkin, and for a heartbeat, it felt like laughter. His laughter. Bright and effortless, rolling through the space between you.
You closed your eyes, letting the illusion wrap around you like a blanket you couldn’t quite convince yourself to let go of.
“Stand back,” he’d tease, tilting his head, “Wouldn’t want to accidentally blow you away along with these candles.”
You would shove his shoulder. “Haha, very funny.”
He’d grin wider, that pretty, unstoppable smile that always made your chest flutter. Then, with ridiculous flourish, he’d blow out the candles in an instant, waving away imaginary smoke like he’d just performed a world-class magic trick.
“Make a wish,” he would murmur, voice dropping into that teasing softness that always made your heart trip. He’d lean closer, nose almost brushing yours. “Bet you wished for me.”
He’d smirk like he already knew the answer, like he always did and wait for you to pretend he wasn’t right.
You opened your eyes again, the candles still burning, the space in front of them empty.
But your heart still felt the echo of him sitting there smiling warmly at you, alive in every memory your mind refused to let go of.
The laughter faded slowly, like a song reaching its final note, lingering for a breath, then dissolving into nothing. What remained was stillness. A stillness that settled over the grass, over your hands, over the small glowing circle of candlelight as if the world itself were holding its breath.
The cake sat untouched before you, frosting smoothing into glossy stillness under the soft glow. The candles burned lower with each passing second, their wax pooling and sliding down the sides in slow, uneven streaks, like tears tracing a face that couldn’t cry for itself.
You swallowed, curling your fingers into the fabric of the blanket, forcing the corners of your lips upward into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but wasn’t quite surrender either.
“You’d hate how quiet it is,” you whispered, your voice soft enough that even the wind didn’t bother to carry it far.
And it was true, Satoru despised quiet. He filled silence like he was allergic to it, stuffing it with chatter and laughter and off-handed compliments he pretended weren’t actually compliments. He’d stretch out across your lap, humming nonsense, asking questions he had no intention of letting you answer, just to make sure the world didn’t settle too heavily around you.
But now, the quiet pressed in on all sides, heavy, unyielding, demanding. It coiled around your shoulders and dug into your lungs, swallowing every imagined word before it could escape. The playful breeze from minutes ago fell still, and the air grew thick with a quiet so absolute it made your ears ring.
The candles flickered, the flames shrinking a little, like even they were tiring of holding onto the illusion that someone might lean forward and blow them out.
You remembered the way he had sprawled across your couch, limbs splayed like he owned the entire world, which, of course, he always acted like he did. One hand rested behind his head, the other lazily drumming on the armrest, and his blindfold was crooked as usual, revealing just enough to catch your glare.
“You know,” he said, voice lazy but deliberate, “if I ever go, don’t cry too much.”
Your hand shot out instinctively, smacking his arm. “Don’t joke like that, Satoru!”
He only laughed, that careless, ringing laugh that used to make your heart ache for reasons you couldn’t explain. Bright, infectious, entirely him.
“I’m serious,” he said, rolling onto his side now, propping his head on one elbow. “I’d want you to celebrate me, not mourn. Life’s too short to waste it on crying. Make it fun. Make it ridiculous. Make it… me.”
You’d rolled your eyes, but he’d leaned closer, voice softening just a fraction, enough to make you falter. “And besides,” he added, smirking, “you know I hate tears on my birthday cake.”
Back then, it had sounded like nonsense, a tease meant to make you laugh. Now, the memory cut sharper than any knife could, slicing through the warmth you’d held onto. The irony pressed in on you cruelly, heavier than the evening air — the celebration he’d wanted, the jokes he’d made, the light he’d brought, all ghostly echoes in the emptiness surrounding you now.
Even remembering his voice wasn’t enough; it was only a hollow warmth, reminding you how far away he truly was.
Your fingers traced the carved letters on the cold, smooth stone, fingertips lingering over each curve and groove as if you could memorize them by touch alone. The name felt both impossibly small and impossibly vast, holding all the weight of everything he had ever been.
No body lay beneath the surface, not for the strongest sorcerer, not for someone who had never known limits. They said his remains were too dangerous, too powerful, treated like a cursed tool rather than a person. The words had been clinical, detached, but they had burned themselves into your chest, leaving a hollow ache that never seemed to fade.
So all you had was this marker, this empty slab of polished stone, this cruel reminder of what couldn’t be touched, couldn’t be held, couldn’t laugh beside you anymore. It mocked the cake, the candles, the picnic, the imagined celebrations, all of it a private theater for a ghost.
The candles flickered at the edges of the blanket, casting trembling shadows across the grass. The light stretched and bent like reaching hands, like his arms might appear out of nowhere, leaning over your shoulder with a grin and a teasing, “Love…..dramatic much?”
But there was nothing. Only the soft hiss of wax melting, the faint rustle of the wind through the trees, and the quiet that had finally settled like a weight on your chest.
If he were here, he’d shake his head, fingers running through his hair in exaggerated frustration, like the weight of your solemnity was personally offensive.
“Celebrating me at a grave?” he’d exclaim, voice dripping with mock horror. “Seriously, you’ve outdone yourself this time.”
He’d lean closer, grin stretched impossibly wide, eyes sparkling even through the blindfold, tilting his head in that infuriatingly charming way he always did. “You’re lucky I’m too handsome to stay dead,” he’d add with a wink, because of course he would even in the most absurd of circumstances, he had to remind you who he was.
You could picture him scooping up a stray candle, twirling it between his fingers, humming a ridiculous tune just to make you laugh, waiting for your eyes to roll but secretly hoping you’d smile anyway.
But the blanket stayed empty. The flickering candlelight danced over your hands, the cake, the grass, and swallowed the fantasy whole. No smirk. No teasing. No warmth leaning against your shoulder. Only the hush of the evening, pressing against your ears, against your chest, against the memory of the life that used to fill every corner of this space.
Even imagining him couldn’t fill the emptiness. He existed only in memory, in the ghost of a laugh, in the echo of a grin you would never see again.
You blew out the candles alone, the small flames flickering one last time before surrendering to the night. The smoke curled upward, carrying with it a wish you couldn’t swallow, a hope lodged painfully in your throat.
“Come back to me,” you whispered, voice trembling despite your attempt at steadiness. The words felt ridiculous, hopeless, yet impossible not to speak.
The grave remained silent, unyielding. Nothing answered your plea. Nothing ever would.
The cake sat there, untouched, frosting dulled by the warm air, candles now nothing more than wax tears sliding down their holders. Each droplet seemed to mark the absence, the emptiness, the cruel truth you couldn’t deny: the laughter, the teasing, the warmth of his touch, all gone.
You pressed your forehead against the blanket, inhaling the scent of cake and grass and memories, trying to imagine him beside you one last time. But the illusion shattered with every heartbeat.
And then it hit you, sharp and cold: birthdays were never meant for the dead. They were meant for the living. The laughter, the chaos, the stolen frosting, the soft teasing, the warmth of someone who could still hold your hand.
He wasn’t here. Never would be. And the space he had left behind was too heavy, too vast, too cruel to fill with anything else.
You sat there, silent, letting the wax, the tears, and the shadows settle around you, carrying the weight of a birthday meant for someone who could no longer celebrate it.