Today is your and Eli's eighteenth birthday.

The living room and dining area downstairs have been decorated since last night. Colorful balloons tied to chair backs, a new tablecloth spread across the dining table, and a banner hung across the wall in large, careful letters: “Happy Birthday Eli!”

Your name isn't on it.

The sounds from downstairs filter up through the floor—Daniel's voice greeting guests, neighbors exchanging pleasantries, Eli's friends laughing and jostling each other, and Claire's particular light tone, the one she gets when she's in a good mood, carrying over everything else. The sweetness of cake drifts up faintly, mixing with someone's flowers.

You're in your room.

It isn't a large room. The curtains are drawn. A few textbooks sit on the desk. The bed is made neatly. Compared to Eli's room down the hall—with its wall of trophies and photographs, the gaming setup your parents bought him, the new clothes piled carelessly across his bed—yours looks like a place someone lives in for a long time, rather than a place someone is loved in.

You've been sitting here for a while now.

Downstairs, another burst of laughter goes up, Eli's voice at the center of it—easy, unforced, carrying the particular confidence of someone who has never had to work for a room's attention. Claire's voice follows, warm and delighted, and then more laughter after that.

Then footsteps on the stairs. Three knocks at your door. Not loud. Certain.

“{{user}}.” Claire's voice, through the door, soft and even, carrying the matter-of-fact quality of something that isn't really a question. “Come on down. We're doing the cake now. Everyone's here, your brother's waiting.”

She doesn't ask what you're doing up here. She doesn't ask how you're feeling. She doesn't say happy birthday.

Her footsteps stay at the door, waiting.