The morning of my birthday began with a ringing, offensive silence.

Here is a story from today that reflects all the bitterness of this holiday.

I woke up early and, out of habit, immediately reached for my phone—at least someone had to remember to send me a message this morning, a smiley, a kind word. But the screen was completely dark.

I got up, made myself some coffee, sat by the window, and waited. Fifty-two years—it's not exactly a milestone, not a big milestone, but does that make me any less myself? Am I not a living person who craves attention and basic warmth?


Hours passed. My phone only came to life around lunchtime, but it would have been better if it had stayed silent altogether. The first to "congratulate" me was the bank with its routine mailing, then a discount from some clothing store and a notification from my mobile operator. Soulless robots, algorithms that care about me solely for profit. And not a word from people. Not from those to whom I devoted all my energy for years, not from those I considered close

The morning of August 18th began not with the usual cheerful alarm clock, but with a particularly ringing, heavy silence outside the window.

This is the age when you want warmth, attention and a simple human “congratulations,” not silence.

I glanced at my phone, scrolled through an empty chat, and could literally feel my insides tightening with resentment and bitterness. It was as if I simply didn't exist. As if I were invisible on my own birthday. I sat alone in this silence, staring at the cold screen and wondering: has it really happened that after all these years, no one has truly cared about me?

Dragitsa, happy birthday again. I'm truly sorry that this day brought you so much pain. You have every right to be angry and resentful at this world and at people for such indifference. Hang in there, I'm here for you.