It's Your Birthday, But My Every Breath Is Connected to You

It was her birthday.

The day she entered this world. The day the universe unknowingly handed over a reason for my every heartbeat.

She didn’t know that while she was counting candles and laughing with her friends, I was sitting in my room—heart full, eyes lost, breath slow—thinking only of her.

Not because I wasn’t invited.

But because I had planned something far more personal.

Her name was Emaan.

A name that meant faith.

And she was exactly that to me.

Faith—in love, in destiny, in softness in a world that could be so hard.

We met at a community cultural event in Chicago. She was wearing a deep maroon kurti with silver embroidery, standing near the mehndi booth with her friends, and I swear everything around her blurred into silence.

It wasn’t love at first sight. It was something deeper—like my soul just leaned forward and whispered, "There she is."

That night, I couldn’t sleep. Her laughter echoed in my ears. Her smile wasn’t just beautiful, it was safe.

Over time, we grew close.

Conversations turned into confessions. Confessions into companionship. We were never dramatic. Never loud. Just... naturally bound together.

She once said, “I’m scared of birthdays. They remind me how fast time runs.”

I had replied, “Then let me freeze one for you.”

And today was the day I planned to do just that.

I had been working for weeks.

A private rooftop in the city.

Fairy lights.

A projector playing her childhood clips secretly collected from her mother.

And one handwritten letter.

No crowd. No noise.

Just us.

But the weather had other plans.

Heavy rain.

Wind warning.

Everything canceled.

For a moment, I panicked. I felt like I failed her. Failed our love.

But then I remembered... she never wanted grand.

She wanted real.

So I did what I knew best.

I took a deep breath, picked up my notebook, and walked to her house.

Her little brother opened the door.

She was in her room, still in her birthday dress—a soft lavender with delicate beadwork, her hair flowing over her shoulders, bare feet on the carpet.

She looked up from her phone and smiled, surprised but not shocked.

"You came."

I nodded. "Couldn’t miss your day. Even if the sky did."

She laughed gently, moved over on the bed, and I sat beside her.

I didn’t bring balloons or flowers. I brought only my heart.

"I had a whole plan," I admitted. "Projector, lights, the works. But the rain..."

She put a hand on mine.

"You came. That’s more than enough."

We sat in silence for a while.

The kind of silence that feels full.

Then I opened my notebook.

“I wrote something,” I said.

Her eyes softened.

I read:

"It’s your birthday, but every breath I’ve taken since I met you has felt like a gift you unknowingly gave me.

You weren’t born for me, I know that.

But since you were born… I’ve started to live differently.

In your presence, the world feels gentler.

In your absence, my heart writes poetry.

You are not just the girl I love.

You are the echo in every prayer, the pause in every breath.

So today, while you celebrate another year,

I celebrate the moment your soul entered this world.

Because it eventually found mine."

She didn’t speak for a long time.

Her fingers gripped mine tighter.

Her eyes shimmered—but didn’t fall.

Then she leaned forward and whispered:

“No one’s ever loved me like this before.”

We didn’t go out.

We didn’t post selfies.

We just sat there, in her softly lit room, hands together, breaths syncing like music.

I watched her open the small box I handed her.

Inside: a silver locket.

Not with her initials.

But with mine.

She looked confused.

I explained: "Because I belong close to your heart. Not the other way around."

She closed her eyes.

One tear fell.

And she smiled—the kind of smile that makes you believe the world can be good again.

That night, as I walked back home through the light rain, every drop felt like a blessing.

It wasn’t the celebration I planned.

It was better.

Because I realized…

I didn’t need a perfect night.

I just needed her to feel perfect.

And she did.

And because of that,

I did too.