It’s vanilla. If a cake is white on the outside, the inside is most possibly going to be vanilla flavored. I sit on the floor. So does the cake. I somehow wish there would be a huge earthquake and one of the thick wooden beams falls on my head. My dead face would be embedded in cake. “Poor girl, dies on her birthday.” a reporter would be saying nearby.
See, I’m imagining things again. Horrible things. I wish you were here to hold me. Protect me from my craziness.
What the hell, I thought, might as well enjoy the cake. Suddenly, my phone shudders and comes to life. It’s you. Calling.