I never imagined that my 35th birthday would turn into the most heartbreaking day of my life. I usually didn’t make much of a fuss about birthdays, but this year, I craved something different — warmth, closeness, real connection.
I chose to host the celebration at home. I planned everything myself: set a cozy table, prepared my favorite homemade dishes, and invited the friends who had stood by me through everything — late nights, hard times, and unforgettable moments.
We had agreed to meet at six. I spent the entire day preparing — bought the freshest ingredients, marinated the meat, made soup from scratch, and even baked a pie. I arranged the table just right: soft candlelight, gentle music in the background, polished glasses, folded napkins — every detail was perfect.
As six o’clock neared, I felt that flutter of excitement — like waiting for something beautiful to begin.
But then… no one came.
At exactly six o’clock, I stood by the window, eyes scanning the quiet street below.
Nothing. No voices. No cars pulling up. Just silence.
“They’re just running late,” I reassured myself, pouring a glass of wine to ease the nerves. Some of them were known for being late — it was typical. So I waited.
Thirty minutes passed. Still no one.
The uneasiness began to creep in, slowly tightening in my chest. I checked my phone — no missed calls, no new messages. I sent a quick note in the group chat:
“Where are you guys?” But the only response was silence.
My thoughts started spiraling.
“Did they forget?”
“Maybe I got the date wrong?”
“Was it something I said… or didn’t say?”
Each sip of wine brought a growing ache to my throat. I couldn’t swallow the lump that had formed.
I tried calling — one friend at a time.
No one picked up. Not one.
An hour passed. Then another.
I sat at the beautifully arranged table, surrounded by untouched food and flickering candles, staring at the empty plates like they might explain why I was alone. The music still played softly, but now it felt cruel — like I’d been cast as the joke in a play I didn’t know I was in.
By ten, I stood up quietly and began clearing the dishes, still holding onto a sliver of hope that the door would burst open, and someone would shout, “Surprise! We were just joking!”
But no one came.
Then, everything changed.
Just as I was getting ready for bed, my phone buzzed — a message from my sister:
“Did you see the news? I’m so sorry, I didn’t know how to tell you… There was an accident. Their car… they were on their way to you.”
I froze. My hands went numb. I opened the news.
The first headline I saw:
“C.rash on the highway… three d-ead…”
The screen blurred as my heart sank.
It was them. My friends. All three. In the same car.
They really were coming. They hadn’t forgotten.
That night, I couldn’t cry.
I just sat there in the dark, listening to the steady drip of the kitchen tap. The wine glass sat untouched. The plates remained on the table — as if waiting for guests who’d never arrive.
And I… so caught up in my own pain… never once considered something tragic could have happened.
I thought I’d been abandoned.
But the truth was far, far worse.