Act as though nothing is wrong. Go about your day as normal. Exchange friendly conversation. Then later that night, they will enter the room, flip on the lights, and see you, wearing a birthday hat, surrounded by balloons. A birthday cake sits in your lap.
“What is this?” they might say.
“Happy birthday.” You say, unblinking. A deranged smile stretches across your face.
“But- it’s not my birthday!” they reply.
“I know” you say, holding out the cake, “take a slice. I made it myself.” Hesitantly, they grab a piece of cake. You watch intently. They hold the slice in their hands, not quite sure what to do next. After a long, awkward silence, they slowly take a bite. You nod in approval.
“Aren’t you going to open your card?” you ask.
“What c-“ but they pause, slowly, they turn their head to the left. A single card in a florescent orange envelope dangles next to them from a balloon. They place the cake on the ground and slowly open the envelope. When they open it, they find the card is blank on the front. They look up at you, clearly more confused than ever.
“Go ahead,” you prompt, “open it up!” They do. They open the card and inside, written in giant blood red letters, are the words:
Your friend Sara