First and Last

She texted me happy birthday at 12:00. And again at 11:59 PM.

Her name was Ava. I haven't really spoken to her in eight months. We broke up in February. A hard, messy, tearful night in my car. She ended up walking home. I haven't heard her voice since.

My birthday is November 3rd. Every year, she was the first to text. 12:00 AM exactly. A pun, a photo, an emoji spam. A little ritual we'd never named but never missed.

This year, I told myself I wouldn't check my phone at midnight. I checked at 11:56 PM. Nothing. At 12:00, nothing. At 12:05, nothing. 12:30. 1 AM. Nothing.

I said, "Fine. It's fine." And let my friends drag me out. We had a good night, honestly. I even laughed.

When I got home, drunk and happy and a bit sad, I got into bed. And at 11:59 PM, the very last minute of my birthday, my phone buzzed.

"Happy birthday."

Just that. No joke. No emoji.

Then, two seconds later, another.

"I wanted to be both first and last. But I couldn't be first. I wasn't brave enough. So I'm last."

I read it. Then read it again. The clock flicked to midnight. The day ended.

She'd waited twenty-four hours.

Every minute. Every hour.

To be the final person who remembered me.