Birthday Mishap

I had been planning my birthday party for weeks. Nothing fancy—just backyard decorations, homemade cupcakes, and a scavenger hunt around the neighborhood. I invited all the girls from my class, plus a few others I liked. And at the very last second, I scribbled Jamie’s name on the invitation list too.

I didn’t even ask my mom before writing his name on one of the extra cards.

I handed it to him on a Friday, after the final bell. “No pressure or anything,” I said quickly. “It’s just cupcakes and stuff.”

Jamie looked down at the card, then up at me. “Thanks.”

And that was it. He tucked it into his notebook and walked out into the hallway with his usual calm.

I spent the next two days panicking.

What if he didn’t come? What if he did? What if he hated parties? What if he thought I was being weird? Lena and Maya teased me about it all through lunch that Friday.

“You invited Jamie Miller to your birthday?” Lena grinned. “Is this your way of proposing?”

“No,” I snapped, face burning. “We’re friends.”

“Right,” Maya said, dragging out the word. “Just friends who blush whenever the other one talks.”

I didn’t say anything else. I didn’t have to. The way my ears turned red said everything.

Saturday came. My backyard was a mix of balloons, picnic blankets, and muddy grass from the rain earlier in the week. The scavenger hunt clues were tucked into flowerpots and taped under benches. My mom had even made raccoon-shaped sugar cookies as a joke, not knowing how close to the truth that landed.

The girls showed up first. Then came Ethan and a couple of the other boys from our class. I kept glancing at the street, waiting.

Waiting.

But Jamie didn’t come.

By the time the scavenger hunt started, I told myself he was probably busy. Or maybe his parents didn’t let him go to parties. Or maybe he didn’t want to come, and I’d been wrong to hope.

I tried to enjoy the party. I really did. But even as I ran around with Lena and Maya, shouting clues and laughing at the boys who couldn’t find the final riddle, something felt a little off-kilter. Like a button sewn on crooked.

After the last guest left, I helped my mom gather plates and cups. She handed me a wrapped gift that had been sitting on the porch.

“This was by the mailbox,” she said. “No name on it.”

I opened it slowly. Inside was a small sketchbook, the kind with thick paper and a soft leather cover. Tucked into the first page was a folded note, scribbled in tight handwriting:

> Sorry I didn’t come. Crowds are hard sometimes.

Hope you had a good day.

Happy Birthday.

—Jamie

I stared at it for a long time, heart squeezing a little. I wanted to be mad at him for not showing up. But the truth was, I understood.

Crowds were hard for him. He’d told me that. I just hadn’t wanted to believe it might include me too.

I ran my fingers over the cover of the sketchbook. Then I turned the page.

On the second sheet was a drawing—me, sitting cross-legged under a tree, holding a raccoon cookie in one hand and laughing.

He hadn’t just thought of me. He had seen me.

And suddenly, my disappointment melted into something softer. Something a little sad, but also a little sweet.

Maybe this was what liking someone really meant—not just sharing cupcakes and parties, but understanding the parts of them that most people didn’t get.

Even if it meant spending your birthday missing them a little.

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