I take the key out of the lock of the door to my apartment, drop it into my shoulder bag, careful not to let go of the clear-plastic container with a giant cupcake my colleagues presented me with. I use my butt to push the door open, turn around and encounter a button-up shirt stretched across a muscled chest. Xavier. I completely forgot about him.

"Happy birthday." He leads me to the kitchen counter he has set up for two, with a bouquet in the middle. "I've got something for you." He hands me a red gift bag.

I accept it and stand up on the tippy toes to kiss him. He smells clean with a whiff of spice, and he looks good enough to eat too with his dark hair pulled into a short ponytail and his bulging biceps snaking around me. He flashes perfect straight teeth that, even in the dim light of the living-room, seem too white against his olive skin.

His fitness model build attracted me in the first place. After almost a year together, the impressive eight-pack hidden under the shirt is no longer enough to get me hot and bothered. I used to rip his shirt open salivating in anticipation of tracing his muscles with my tongue. Now all I can think of is how tired and stinky I am. I've been awake for seventeen hours and require a shower, a meal, and some zs.

"I need to clean myself up, and then we can eat, ok?"

"Don't you want to see what's inside?" Xavier points at the gift bag I've placed on the counter next to the cupcake from work and his flowers.

"Now?" I sigh. "OK." I snag the bag and reach into it. My spirits lift a little. It's a book. I love books.

I read the title. What is this?

Books are my go-to presents for myself and for everyone. They are my constant companions, the one thing I can rely on. I keep them handy in my room, my car, my backpack, and even my bathroom. Other universes, bright and exciting, make me forget for a bit the real world dimming around me. Reading a good book is one of the ways to block the pain.

'The Secret to Successful Celery Juice Diet' isn't one of those books.

"It's the one I told you about last week. I also got you a couple of bunches of celery to get you started. They're in the fridge." He nods in the direction of the kitchen.

His attempts to get me eating better or to join him at the gym aren't new or surprising. And I'm not against any of them. I'm not. But giving a diet book as a birthday present, and a milestone birthday at that?

I don't have it in me to thank him, and I manage to sidestep as something else in the gift bag catches my eye. There's hope still.

A smaller bag with a signature Victoria's Secret logo looks promising. I take the bundle wrapped in tissue paper and peek inside. A lacy pink teddy is tiny and delicate, and I raise it by the straps in front of me to examine it closer. The sheer contraption seems a bit too small, so I locate the label. I'm right. It's a size too small. Should I be flattered that Xavier thinks I'm going to fit into it? I raise my head to give him another kiss. "Thank you; it's beautiful."

"After a month on the celery juice diet, you'll be able to fit into it, I promise." He flashes his teeth at me again.

I aim the delicate garment at his face.

"What?" He catches it before it lands on him and snatches the book before I throw it too. "What did I do wrong this time?"

"In what universe do you think a diet book and lingerie a size too small is a good present for a twenty-fifth birthday? It's like you don't know me at all." I'm not calm, but I'm too tired and dead inside to shout.

"I know you plenty. You like books and sex. So, I got you a book and a sexy teddy." He drops both items on the floor. "I'm done trying to make you happy. All you do is mope. I wanted to take you out, but you won't leave these four walls even on your birthday. D'you remember the last time we had fun in a bar or a club?"

Everything Xavier says is accurate, and it isn't the first time he's tried to get me out of the house. But I've told him just as many times that I'm not ready. No matter how much I repeat a variation to those words, he doesn't understand. I'm not in the right state of mind to enjoy a night of partying. Today or any day in the foreseeable future. I have too many problems, to-dos, and emotions hanging over my head.

"You know me so well." I intend the remark to be a sarcastic commentary on his criticism. But, as usual, he doesn't hear or chooses not to notice my tone.

"I do, and this"—he points at me and then gestures at the coursebook on French History and the xerox copies of the library's reference books on marriage rites in medieval Europe strewn around the couch—"is not you. It's been four months since your dad died. About time you stopped mourning." He grasps my shoulders. "Get back to your life. You're not the one who died."

What does he know about death and grief? My outer shell may be alive, but part of my soul is dead. It's unresponsive and grey and rotting me from the inside out.

"Whatever." I don't want to continue in the direction he's steering the conversation into, so I shrug his hands off my shoulders and head to the kitchen. "What did you get for dinner?"

Xavier doesn't follow.

"I can't do this," he says. I hear the clang of his keychain, but I refuse to give him anything but my back. "Happy birthday. Enjoy the food and text me when you're ready to have a serious conversation."

He slams the door on his way out.

Jerk. How am I the problem here? He couldn't go with the flow and keep his desire to change me under control for one night? Jerk. Jerk. Jerk. I lean my forehead against the white door of the fridge and don't let myself feel. None of this matters. Who said a passing of another year of a person's life is cause for celebration?

At least I got free food out of it. The takeout is Caesar salad with cold chicken breast. I plop it at one of the placemats on the bar counter. I chew on another forkful of leaves with chicken in the quiet kitchen. How many chocolate truffles do I have left? They'd have to stand in for the sex I'm not having tonight. Looks like a long shower is going to be my birthday gift to myself., if I can make it there.

The steamy water removes the grime of the day. My consolation prize is going to bed before midnight, but sleep doesn't come. I should get up and grade some papers or outline the next chapters of my thesis. Lying there feels wasteful but the exhaustion occupies every cell of my body, so I stay in bed and stare at the shadows moving on the walls.

My screams startle me awake before dawn. The dream about my dad disintegrating into ashes stays in front of my eyes, and I shiver even though I'm drenched in sweat. It's no longer my birthday, but another day for me to force myself out of bed and focus on the next thing I have to do, the tasks piling up in my head. Eventually, evening will come again.