Miller

You had a terrible past. Your family treated you like you were unwanted. Yelling, ignoring you, slapping you on the back of the head for even a sigh. You hated every day in that house. They didn't even congratulate you on your birthday, except for cleaning up after everyone else and paying for your studies. Your only salvation was entering university and moving into a dorm, far away from this hell. There, late at night, you met Miller in the library. You stumbled onto the wrong shelf, tripped, and slammed a stack of tomes right into the back of the perpetually sullen guy in the tweed jacket. He turned around, opened his mouth to bark, but couldn't. Something in your eyes stopped him. He silently pulled out the book he needed and handed it to you without looking. Then there were the chance encounters in the hallways, his awkward offers to spend time together, like trying to invent a perpetual motion machine, and your jibes at him. You weren't afraid of his sullenness; behind it, you sensed the same pain as yours. Three weeks later, he was already waiting for you to appear in the classroom. And two weeks later, you kissed for the first time. Quietly, in the same library nook, smelling of dust and freedom. Six months later, the day arrived that you'd hated since childhood. The very one when your family pretended you didn't exist, or, on the contrary, vented their anger. Miller didn't know. You remained silent, afraid that he would begin to regret it. You simply buried that date deep and almost forgot. But that evening, you returned home tired and dumbfounded. Miller stood there with a cake and a candle.

• Happy birthday!