Today is a special day; it’s my eighteenth birthday.

I can’t believe I’m eighteen now. And I also can’t believe that I’m spending my birthday without Mina by my side. I haven’t talked to her in exactly forty-seven days. In that brief amount of time that I last saw her, everything changed. I went from losing her, to getting her back, to losing her again in less than thirty minutes. Life is funny that way. Funny in an ironic, ed up, I’m-only-laughing-to-lessen-the-pain kind of way. Empty doesn’t even begin to describe the way that I feel. Jackson has taken notice of this and tried to come over and hang around to cheer me up. We’ve gotten closer, but it just doesn’t work. I made friends with a girl named Lisa. We sometimes go out for coffee together and do homework. The sad thing about it---which I really hate to admit to myself---is that I don’t even try to not think about her.

On occasion, I’ll even drink. It’s not even exclusively social drinking anymore. It’s just when I’m alone at home or when I want to be distracted. For the first time in my life, I feel genuinely depressed. Sometimes my mom will ask me if I’m okay or if I’m feeling alright, so every time I just assure her that I’m tired. It works, but I’m not tired. I feel awful. Even today, as I sit at the head of the table in my backyard and smile at my guests while they sing to me, I feel awful. Today is my day. Today I become an adult. But I feel like a child. I feel like I can’t take care of myself without Mina. I feel lost, like I’ve been completely abandoned. Somehow I know the entire thing is my whole fault, even though I can’t admit it to myself out loud.

My relatives and family friends all wrap up their off-key birthday song and I take that as my cue to blow out the candles on my cake. I blow out the eighteen candles just before my cousin, Rhy, pushes my head into my cake. Laughter erupts throughout the yard at the birthday tradition that I wish died a long time ago. I lift my head up and wipe the mint green frosting from my eyes, some of it off of my fingers. Rhy pats me on the back and says the same trademark line he’s said every year since my fifth birthday.

“Happy birthday, Momo. Congratulations on surviving a whole another year!”

I stand up and thank everyone for coming. The “party” resumes and people branch out across the backyard and begin chatting, eating cake, drinking, and reminiscing. I solemnly wander into the house, finding a can of Sprite. My stomach growls loudly, prompting me to groan and slump down into a chair at the dining table. My uncle Mark, who is only 26 years old, emerges from the bathroom and begins walking toward the sliding glass doors behind me. He stops when he notices me by myself, turning and pulling up a chair. I offer him a weak attempt at a smile as he turns the seat around and plops down on it. He folds his arms over the back of the chair and leans forward.

“Party’s outside, kid. And it’s for you.” He teases, resting his chin on his forearm.

I turn and look at him, laughing dryly, “Ha-ha.”

For as long as I can remember, Mark has always looked the same. He always has his dark brown hair spiked up in the front, with a silver ring in his right ear, and his goatee clean-shaved. His wardrobe includes a wide selection of band shirts and solid colored t-shirts. Today, he sports his black shirt and his acid washed jeans, as well as a pair of black gum-sole Vans. And, as always, his Green Bay Packers lanyard hangs out of his left pocket.

“But, really, Momo…What’s gotcha down? And don’t say nothing, because I’ve known you since you were born. And your stank face is never this stanky.” He grins and even manages to get me to crack a genuine smile.

“I don’t know.” I purse my lips and cast my gaze elsewhere, “I j