Emerson clicks her tongue in disapproval. “Seriously, that’s not what you’re wearing out to my birthday.”

I look down at the casual black ensemble I paired with heels to “perk it up,” and shrug, “It works for me.”

“It’s not your birthday,” she sasses. ‘You don’t get the last say.”

“My outfit isn’t your gift.”

“Make it my gift, go and change.”

“For fucks sake,” I shout into the air. “Who even put you in charge?”

“Stop your whining, we have a reservation and I don’t want to be late.”

“Late for who? It’s your birthday.”

She waves me off. “I put some clothes on your bed. You’ve got twenty minutes. Make it happen.”

“Fucking diva,” I mutter.

There on my bed is my black dress. The black dress that started it all. It’s been five weeks and I feel like my whole heart has been ripped out of my chest. I think about him constantly, and I miss him so much it borderline’s unhealthy.

He filters through every thought in my mind, and every space in my house. His memory is paralysing and I just don’t know how to get past it.

Emerson mentioned he hasn’t seen or spoken to anyone since it happened, but I shut down the conversation as quick as I could. I didn’t need a reason to wonder why he hasn’t come to me. To tell me we’re over, or to tell me we’re not.

Some days when I’m feeling extra masochistic I let myself revel in his silence and give myself false hope, that he’s coming back. He just needs time.

Emerson bangs on the door. “I don’t hear you getting ready, you’ve got ten minutes.”

What a fucking ball buster.

Grabbing the dress, I put it on through tears, and get ready for him. I tell myself the lie, because I really don’t know what to do if he’s not the be all and end all for me.

For the first time ever I can sympathise with my mother telling me she wanted to grieve for the love of her life on her own.

Drix isn’t dead, but I feel like I’m grieving all the same. And every time I think I can rejoin the world and put it all behind me, my heart tells me it’s not time yet.

My bedroom door swings open, and Emerson barges in. Prepared to reprimand me for breathing incorrectly, the expression on her face is mildly surprised that I’m actually dressed and ready to go.

“See? Look how pretty you are. Don’t you feel better?”

I give her my best clenched teeth smile. “Couldn’t be better,” I grit out.

“Chop. Chop. Young lady,” she says while clapping at me. “Let’s go.”

Deciding to completely ignore her for the rest of the night. I lock up the house, and jump in her car. It takes us forty-five minutes to arrive to what I thought was a restaurant and is now a Karaoke Bar.

“Karaoke?” My voice cracks in surprise.

She narrows her eyes at me. “Is there a problem?”

“Since when do you sing?”

“Sometimes I like to try different things.”

“Biggest crock of shit I ever heard,” I mutter underneath my breath. She’s the worst liar.

“God, you are in the shittiest mood,” she snaps. “Could you please get over it.”

“Fine. I’m sorry.” I give her a quick peck on the cheek. “You’re right. It’s your birthday, and I will have fun with you tonight.” I offer her my pinky. “I promise.”

Stepping into the Karaoke bar, I’m surprised to see it’s set up similar to a restaurant. It’s got all different sized tables, that face the stage, and a bar to order food and drinks from. Expecting to see more of Emerson’s other friends, I’m surprised when she sits us at a table of two.

“Where’s everyone else?” I ask.

“It’s just you and me.”

“I wouldn’t have minded if other people came,” I say feeling guilty. “I know I’ve been a dick to be around, but I would’ve played nice for your birthday.”

She puts her hand over mine, while softly shaking her head. “It’s not that. I just wanted it to be you and me.”

“Fair enough.” I look around, and take in people are only sitting and there’s like piano music in the background “Where’s the singing?”

“It starts when they begin serving dinner.”

“Oh. When can we order?”

“Friday nights are set menus only,” she says quickly, hoping I won’t pull her up on it.

“Emmmmmmm,” I groan.

“Shut up. It’s only you and me, and you can eat extra if you need to.”

Surprised by how busy this hole in the wall is, I’m looking forward to everyone singing badly in public.

The waitress appears out of thin air with our entrees and the portions have me a little less miffed that I have to share with Em.

The lights dim a little bit further, when this cute pixie looking lady, bursts out onto the stage, ready to officiate the night. Her energy is contagious and I find myself feeling a little giddy at what’s to come.

“Okay, ladies and gentleman, before we get into the messy, drunk, and off key part of the evening. I have someone who has put in a special request, for a very special person.”

The crowd cheers, and my stomach unexpectedly erupts into flutters. I look over at Em, and her face says it all. She leans over the table. Kissing me on the cheek and whispering in my ear. “Be happy. Love you.”

My eyes stay fixated ahead, as the spotlight shines on the centre of the stage, and out comes my one and my only; Hendrix Michaels. Brown mussed up hair, a navy blue t-shirt, paired with dirty, dark denim jeans and Chucks, he looks as perfect as I remember.  He looks out into the crowd, seeking me out. When he finds me, he tips his head to the lady, giving her the go ahead.

The familiar music starts, and I have to bury my head in my hands to control my emotions. He jumps off the stage, gunning for me, as Phil Collins’ Groovy Kind of Love plays throughout the whole place. It’s everything. Tragically cheesy, and so fucking perfect.

The wait for him to reach me becomes too much. I kick off my heels, hike my dress up, and run. Tears streaming down my face, with every step. Getting closer, he holds out his arms and I throw myself into the only place I belong.

Securing me tightly, I cry the happiest tears of my life, all over his shoulder. The song ends, when I feel his hand shoot up and circle in the air.

Setting me on my feet, I see the relief and unshed tears in his eyes, as the song starts up again. Cradling my neck he brings me to him, close enough that even air would struggle to get in between.

I feel his hot breath spread like wildfire all over my body, as he says my favourite line. “Sing for me, Crazy.”