There was one day I worshipped. One day where the sun would shine just for me, and the birds would chirp outside my window in a cliched, perfect scenario. On that day, they allowed me to be everything I wanted. Spoiled rotten and goofy. Why? Because when my birthday came, I was the center of my parents' universe and the world was my oyster.

I'd go on endless rides through the neighborhood with my dad, and we'd play our favorite game. We'd stop by random houses, basking under the sun, and imagine the life of the people that lived in them. We'd spy on them and make conversations. He'd be the male voices, and I'd take on the female ones with a talented cadence.

In the afternoon, Mom would bake the perfect birthday cake and the two of us would indulge in so many pieces we'd need a nap afterwards. Daddy and I were always prone to sweet things. Mom? Not so much. Yet, she enjoyed watching us munch until we dropped.

When Tommy came into this world and then Bree joined our party of four, this special routine didn't change one bit. I still felt like the queen of the universe every birthday morning. Dad would make sure it'd remain that way for the entire day.

It's Sunday, and today, I'm seventeen. I don't know what to make of it. This is my second birthday without Daddy, and my chest burns so badly it's hard to breathe.

The world won't stop spinning, and I'm resenting the seconds that have passed and dreading the ones to come. But then, I hear noises downstairs and giggles. I hear whispers and the thudding of tiny feet jumping on the planks from expectation. My heart warms a little and the tiniest of smiles creeps up my face.

Tommy and Bree barge into my room with sheer glee. They don't mind if I'm awake or not—they haven't thought of it. They are all chubby cheeks and sticky fingers, clambering onto my bed with awkward limbs. They plant kisses on my face, and birthday drawings on my lap.

Bree's card is covered in pink glitter and red hearts that drip glue from their bends. Hearts are all I hear. Their thumping melody as my siblings crush me within their over-excited hugs. It's as if they wanted to say, "Don't get weird again, Dawn." "We worry about you, Dawn." "Stay."

Tommy's card has a picture of me. 'Doodle Dawn' shows a toothy, wide smile plastered on her face and her hair is on end—fair enough.

My gaze lowers to more sloppy, shameless love scattered over my lap.

'Happy Birthday, Dawney!'

'You're the best big sister we have!'

'Here's a heart for being so grate!'

'Hey! Your are really old but I love you!'

They squeal when I read them out loud. More hugs come swimming in a wave of laughter that floods the room. I float on it. I let it seep in my roots. I soak in this moment with gratitude.

From downstairs, Mom's voice calls my siblings and off they hop from my bed, opening the door with squirming enthusiasm. The vanilla scent of a baked cake invades my nostrils and something catches at my throat. I wait until I'm alone to allow the tears to flow. When I'm all dried up, I make my way to the bathroom and stare at my seventeen-year-old face. Somehow I made it to another year. I close my eyes and imagine myself at a hundred. Gray-haired, wizened, rheumy eyes etched with wrinkles. The idea of living that long seems unlikely.

"Remember your fifth birthday, baby bee?"

Daddy... You came. Can I tell you my birthday wish? Let me hear your heartbeat as you lift me up from the ground and twirl me around because I'm ancient. Let me hear it racing because you're getting old too, and these bike rides are more exhausting than ever. Let me play our game and invent a zillion more stories.

How could I forget?

My eyes well up again but he can't see them so I wash my face and listen to his voice on this windy morning. As it whooshes, as it whistles, as it carries his words that nest right inside my chest.

"You wanted that clown cake, so Mom made you one with tiny water balloons on the sides." He chuckles at the memory and I think I might shed my skin, right here, right now. I'll leave it behind. These heavy bones that won't let me fly and float away to where he is. If I were ethereal, we would be together again.

There are so many things I yearn to ask him. Did he die then realize how horrible it was to leave his baby bee behind? Is this why he has come back to me? Does he need it as much as I need it? This belonging, these bits of the life we shared? Is this how it feels to miss your dad so much? That you are standing in your bathroom, shivering all over because maybe you've lost your mind and no one will ever accept that you need this craziness like the air you breathe? Is this better than not being able to accept he is gone for good?

Is it, Dawn?

Is this better?

Is it? Is this better? Is this better? Is this better? Is this better? Is it? Is it?

Loud knocks on my bathroom door bring me back from my whirlwind and into my body with slamming haste. I yelp and grab the sink for leverage.

"Come on, Dawn! Stop taking so long! I heard you peeing and washing your hands, so off you go! Come on!" Tommy's high-pitched voice won't cave, so I shake my head, tossing my foggy thoughts to the side for now.

I blink. I breathe. I'm here. I'm seventeen.

I dress and head downstairs to the kitchen. Tommy is zigzagging down the hall, saying, "Mom! Mom! Dawn is coming! She's coming!"

Pancakes—this time not burnt at all—wait on the counter. There's maple syrup beside them in a jug. My birthday cake is there too. I claw my nails into my clammy palms so Mom won't notice how close I am to fall apart.

She is setting the table with Bree, who hops her way around it, her delight in her bouncy movements and swinging braids. They place four of the new mats we bought recently, I love their teal color and texture. Four of the good plates—white with lilies in their center. There are even flowers in a jam jar. Bree catches me staring at them and chirps, "I was the one who picked them from our front yard. I chose the white ones you love because they match your favorite dress, Dawn!"

There's also a small squared box beside my plate, it's wrapped in golden paper.

"Remember your tenth birthday present, baby bee?" His voice soothes the prickling of my skin, I can loosen my fists now from under the counter.

Sure do, Daddy. You gifted me with Clover. My hands reach out for her soft fur. Her weight presses against my leg in comforting reassurance. She's not going anywhere. She's right here by my side.

"Open your present, Dawn!" Bree's words are garbled around her full mouth, eyes stuck on the box.

"No! She has to eat her cake first! It took a year to make, Dawn!" Poor Mom, she worked hard on it so I take a bite with a tiny smile that lightens her face.

She asks so little of me. Simple things that improve her day. It breaks my heart. Things that in another girl are as natural as blinking. Her daughter, on the contrary, finds everything sharp and edgy and painful. She sees right through me, but I will never stop trying to shield her from my stormy life. I want her to hold tight to this umbrella, this look-Mom-I'm-doing-fine Dawn. God knows, I need the sky to open. Will she ever be able to let go of it? You hold tight, Mom. Maybe someday, I'll wake up and realize there's always been a rainbow hanging over our heads.

"Mom's right, guys. Let's all eat first and then we can see what's in the box." I keep my gaze on Mom's eyes as she mouths a 'thank you'.

Tommy and Bree wolf down their share in half a minute, then sit, twitchy and excited, watching me eat. Now and then, they reach over and pick up the present while Mom tells them off.

"But we don't know what's inside." Bree pouts.

"We need to know!" Tommy bounces on his stool.

"Patience is a virtue," Mom says, causing a lot of huffing and sighing in return. She sips her tea, and I finish my food. Then it's time. I unravel the wrapping so slowly they almost lose their minds.

"Just rip it, Dawn!" Bree nudges, as if to shove me out of the way.

"Oh my God, Dawn!" Tommy thrusts his little fingers into his hair, mussing it.

I ease the red ribbon, glacially. Mom's mouth twitches upward and silence envelops the kitchen like the most craved blanket on a cold winter morning.

It's an iPhone. I stare at Mom, "No way!"

"Yes, way," she says, beaming at me.

"How did you afford it?" I know how much money these cost. I also know how much money I cost. With sporadic visits to the psychiatrist, and the meds her colleague has prescribed. With all that money she could buy herself a car, or a new daughter.

"Your grandparents chipped in." Mom smiles.

I don't know what to say. I feel the weight of the phone in my hands. Its possibilities lever under my thumbs. I could text River and use emojis that would make me seem more interesting than I am. I'll ask Stormy for some pointers. We can take selfies by the fountain and act silly. What-ifs curl my toes tight inside my slippers.

I turn it on and put it up to snap its first photo.

There it is. Here's Clover, tail wagging, tongue lolling. Her bright eyes brimming with kindness, head turned in my direction.

Tommy and Bree cheer as they see it. The house is filled with joyful noises. My gaze falls to the picture. It whispers to me, "Here's to adventures to seek, and moments to chase. And the rise and fall of the sun. And the slap and pull of Elsie's lake. And the chubby seraphim with its rusty, cute bow."

I look around to see if my family heard it too, but the selfie purred to me and no other. I don't know why. Or maybe I do. Honestly, I don't mind it. I should find it scary, but over these last few months I have accepted we exist in a world brimming with oddities.

My psychiatrist keeps saying acceptance is key. I'm learning to accept my hollow bones, my conversations with Dad, my whirlwind and my other murmuring voices—even if I don't tell a soul about them.

So okay, fine. I'm listening. I peep at Mom, she doesn't seem to mind. She's telling my brother and sister we should all take a picture together. She doesn't hear Clover's bark or the whoosh-whoosh of her wagging tail. She pays no attention to my mouth, mumbling answers to Dad's questions.

So I guess this is my life now? This new movie with its uncut scenes are just mine.

The afternoon is big and blue, and I'm sitting on the porch waiting for my apps to load on my new present. The sun is here too, it says, "Happy birthday, Dawn. Here's some warmth to dry your watery thoughts."

I take a bunch of chatty photos. I press the shutter button and the running squirrels say, "I have been searching for food for like twenty minutes."

I zero in on the black neighbor's cat. Snap. It says, "I love her, I love her, I love her. Will she ever have me?"

And the oak tree is asking me how I'm feeling, and I know it's crazy, right? Absolutely, but I don't fret. My fingers laced around my phone, I tell the tree I'm happy-sad-uptown-crazy as always, and maybe every other feeling in the world. That's me in a nutshell. Mr. Tree might have shrugged if it could, perhaps in the fall when its branches are heavy.

I soak in the sun some more and close my eyes to breathe past the chatter, and my new

cell buzzes. I get a notification. A new sound. A foreign sound.

River Allen Torres wants to be your friend on Facebook.

River? What the hell? It's been a week since I've sent him that pathetic message. Seven days, one hundred and seventy seven hours. Not that I'm counting...

I must have gasped because the caterpillar from the nearby branch writhes her body and shakes her head, turning it in my direction. She says, "Are you okay, dear?" She also thinks I've forgotten how to breathe. I agree with her.

"Uh," I say, because now the world is shrinking into itself and, of course, I didn't expect he'd accept my blunt invite. How? And again I think it's because I'm in a movie and this is a story and River is a story and none of this is real and I sway where I stand.

Miss. Caterpillar decides I need to sit again. She says I'm this way because I need more protein—she wouldn't know about my human diet. Apologies.

"Uh," I say, again.

"Take your time," she says, which is something nobody ever tells me. So, I stare at the screen of my phone for the longest time before I dare press ACCEPT.

Another buzz and here come the flutters, bursting and burgeoning, overwhelming my ability to sit still.

My fingers tremble as I type two letters without proper punctuation, which is not important right this instant.

I stare at the screen, frozen, rasping in shuddering breaths.

Each second ticks by in infinite sloth-mode.

Am I doing this right? Who knows? I've never texted with a boy I cared about before. I might be terrible at it for all I know. What if he doesn't like my texting and finds another girl to type with? End of the scene before it even began.

I jolt so bad, my phone falls to the ground with a loud thump. Smooth. I bend and clutch it with fumbling fingers, afraid to look at its screen. Luck is on my side—go figure—for it's unscathed.

My eyebrows crinkle as my forehead beads. Did I not say hi? I can't remember.

If I did, did it go through? Maybe it didn't as I turned off the screen in shock. If it didn't, should I type 'Hi' again? With twitching eyes, I type, "Uh" instead. My cheeks burn in mortification.

 Ah. I take control of my fingers and will them to type what I want and not allow my subconscious rein.

I double check that I haven't said the wrong thing and the warmth of relief slump my stiff shoulders. I swear to God, my heart wobbles.

Is River talking about himself too? He's been a jerk to me more than once. The evidence is still fresh. His look that first day we met, condescending as fuck. The no talking to me after I nearly died... or was that the other way round? I can't think clearly anymore.

The birds chirping deafens me, and I pray he learns to type faster. Look at me, already wanting things from this boy who's watery name does things to me I wouldn't be able to explain even if I wanted to. Clover nudges my right leg, she's curious about my constant fidgeting and huffing. I bet she's wondering why her owner has turned into such a wobbly mess.

The breeze rustles the branches from the oak trees, goose bumping my arms even though I'm sweating as if my garden held the whole damn Sahara desert. How long has it been since my last text? Ten minutes? Ten hours? Ten days?

I need to chill.

A new buzz sends a fresh set of tingles down my spine. My stomach somersaults from anticipation. Is this how it feels to like a boy? That you are burning from within while he's got your heart in the palm of his hand and your hopes laced in his long, delicate fingers? That you wonder how you haven't disintegrated as the world spins and changes under your feet so fast you could fall head first into a pit of unknown social innuendos.     

My brain goes blank. What has he just said? What do I say? "Thanks?" I type it before I know better.

Here's a LOL from a boy I've never seen smile. That count, right? I'm grinning, and I imagine him staring at the screen at the same time I am. My cheeks grow warm again, tying my tongue. I'm not worried. It's my fingers doing the talking. My reaction to his texts has me blushing hotter than the sun who tsks at me.

And sorry for giving you my back, and running for the hills, and the crying, and the boot incident, and for being me.

I giggle, imagining myself spasming on the lake's embankment. Yup, that would've been worse than me fleeing like bats were on my ass.

I stare at the screen. Time tick-tocks. I type and he types.

Oh. I delete my 'Take care' and in a wild tizz, alter my text.

I chew on my bottom lip, wavering on whether I should be truthful. What would lying benefit me? What did it matter in the long run?

Now I wish I'd lied. Despite the fire on my face as Miss Caterpillar cowers in the shadows, I persevere.

Tick-Tock and three dots that take forever and my breath away.

Endless dots follow as he types up a long text. Or is my phone broken? Can that happen? A glitch on the three dots, or is he indecisive, typing and deleting then typing again. I swear Miss Caterpillar just facepalmed with one of her many feet.

I laugh, picturing everything. What an epic movie that would be. I inwardly give him an A for effort and imaginative thinking. A stray breeze caresses my hair across my cheek and I flick it away with a grin. Come to think of it, my hair is better than his...

That and nothing else, because he's gorgeous and sweet talking to me like this. As if I matter. He saw me, saved me, and now gifted me with a perfect birthday present, without even knowing. This wonderful moment in my chaotic life. An explosion of butterflies in my stomach I'll cherish even after I'm fast asleep.

A scary thought creeps its way up... What if Dad disapproves of this new friendship and refuses to talk to me? I can't deal with such dread, so I swat it away by fixating on the screen.

On River's last words... On their subtle connotation.

It's as if he secretly meant, "Can't you just see it, Dawn? We could be characters taken from a movie. We could be a story."

Ah, River. Couldn't we just?