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I emerged from the fridge holding a red cake frosted in white. “Open your eyes!” I sang, setting it down on the dining table. 

“Oh, red velvet!” He remarked, studying my commitment. I felt his smooth, affirming voice vibrating between my ears. “Yes, I hope so too, love,” he added softly. There was a warmth in his presence. 

“Well! Let’s try it,” I said after a deep breath. I opened up the drawer where the knives were kept. “Oh, right,” I muttered, closing it and walking to my mother’s bedroom.  

“She’s paranoid,” I said lightheartedly upon reentering the candlelit dining room, waving it off with knife in hand.  

“Alright! First piece; for you,” I set the dessert plate in front of him. “Only after an anniversary does it all start to feel tangible.” 

Eager for the fork to rise from the silk tablecloth and make a dent in the frosting, I urged him, “Go on, try it!” 

The slice remained perfectly untouched. 

Apprehensively, I sat down across from him, trying to study his gaze as his face blurred slightly and his breath caught. 

I waited still, watching the candles flicker, goosebumps and defeat growing. 

In a fit of impatience, I aimed the knife at the cake; the knife that was used to cut him a slice of my optimism. With a splatter, the “I hope one day you’ll be as real as my love for you” that was scrawled in frosting was no longer legible.