I didn’t eat the cake at my cousin’s birthday.

It sat right in front of me on the plastic picnic table. Chocolate, three layers thick, with that shiny fudge frosting I used to love. The kind that gets everywhere. Fingers, lips, probably your elbows if you weren’t careful. Everyone was buzzing, grabbing paper plates, laughing too loud.

My uncle nudged me. "Come on, champ! Big slice?" My stomach did a weird flip. Not hunger. Panic. I forced a smile, thin and tight. "Nah, I'm good right now. Maybe later?" I lied. I watched my aunt cut a huge piece, dripping frosting onto the tablecloth. Relief washed over me as the attention shifted. For a few minutes, anyway. Then my cousin’s friend offered me candy from a bowl. Back to square one.

Finding out I had type 2 diabetes last year didn’t feel like a diagnosis. It felt like getting fired from being a normal teenager. One minute I was just me, worrying about homework and my awful haircut. Next, the doctor was saying words like "insulin resistance" and "lifelong management."

My ears rang. I stared at a poster about heart health on the wall. It showed a smiling older couple walking. That’s who I thought got diabetes. Not me. Not sixteen. It felt like a punishment, but I couldn’t figure out what I’d done wrong. Why me? Did I eat that much worse than everyone else? The guilt was instant, heavy. Like I’d failed somehow.

I carried that secret like a stone in my pocket for weeks. Every lunchtime was a minefield. Friends offered fries, shared bags of chips. "Nah, not hungry," I’d mumble, pushing my sandwich around.

How do you say it? "Sorry, my pancreas is broken, pass the carrots?" I pictured the looks. The pity. The stupid questions. "Can you ever have sugar?" "Did you eat too much candy?" I didn’t want to be the Diabetic Kid. The label felt bigger than me.

But hiding it was exhausting. Every refusal felt like a lie. Every bite someone offered felt like a test I might fail. It was the constant awareness that my body didn't work right. Those simple things were now complicated. That something was fundamentally wrong, and everyone might see it.

Living with this is like having a second, invisible job. Some days are okay. Routine. I prick my finger, see a decent number, and it’s like getting a passing grade. Small win.

Other days? Doesn't matter if I ate exactly right, exercised, drank water. My meter flashes a number that makes my heart sink. It feels like my body’s betraying me.

And the things I miss aren't huge. It’s the little spontaneities. Grabbing a smoothie with friends after practice without dissecting the menu first. Saying yes to pizza without calculating how many slices equal disaster. Even a big glass of cold orange juice on a hot day—a simple pleasure turned into a risk.

Grocery shopping takes forever. Every label gets read. Carbs, sugars, serving sizes. It’s constant math. Did I sleep enough last night? Stressful day at school? Both can mess with my blood sugar.

Food stopped being just fuel or fun. Now it’s medicine, keeping the engine running smooth. Or it’s poison, if I misjudge. It’s control, meticulously planned. Or it’s losing control, a red number flashing on a screen, reminding me I’m not the boss here.

Telling my friends was the hardest thing after the diagnosis itself. I waited weeks. Finally, during lunch, staring at my soggy sandwich, I just blurted it out. "So, uh, found out I have type 2 diabetes." Silence.

My best friend, Maya, dropped her chip mid-air. Then she slid over, wrapped her arm around my shoulders, and squeezed. No big speech. Just that hug. It cracked something open. Like I didn't have to hold it all alone anymore.

Now, it’s different. When we hit the diner after a game, Maya scans the menu with me. "Grilled chicken wrap looks okay, right? Fries are probably out." A couple weeks ago, she brought homemade energy balls to our study group. "My mom found the recipe. No added sugar. Try one?"

Sometimes I still feel like the complication. But weirdly, this stupid disease showed me who really sees me, not just the kid who can't eat sugar.

But even with my friends right there, it’s lonely. I don’t know a single other kid my age with type 2. At school, health class talks about it like an old person's disease. Sometimes friends joke, "Oh man, that candy bar gave me diabetes!" They don’t get it.

They don’t get the constant, grinding mental load. The background app is always running in my brain: What time did I eat? When’s my next check? Did I pack my meter? Are my hands clean enough to test? How many carbs was lunch? Is that foggy feeling low blood sugar or just tired?

It’s exhausting. It steals focus from everything else: class, conversations, just zoning out. You don’t just live with diabetes. You manage it. Constantly. Hour by hour. It’s a job with no breaks, no weekends off.

I wish I could wrap this up with a neat bow. Say I’m totally fine now. I’m not.

Last week, the cafeteria had these fresh, glazed donuts. The smell filled the whole hallway. I stood there for five minutes, just staring. My mouth watered. My brain screamed no. It felt stupidly unfair. I still get waves of anger. Frustration so sharp it stings. I miss the freedom of not thinking. Grabbing a cookie just because it looks good. The simple, thoughtless yes. That loss is real, and it still hurts.

But. I’m not the same person who sat in that doctor’s office last year, terrified. I listen to my body now. The faint tremble in my hands means I need juice, fast. The thick-headed feeling when my sugar’s high.

I’ve learned patience. Waiting for the juice to kick in. Waiting to see if the insulin does its job. And the hardest lesson? Saying no. Firmly, clearly. Even when I want that cake, that donut, that candy, more than anything. Even when everyone else is saying yes.

That no is powerful. It’s me choosing me, even when it sucks.

So yes, I didn’t eat the cake. I watched it disappear slice by slice.

Control is a hard-won, quiet strength I didn’t know I had. Maybe that’s the trade-off. Maybe that’s my different kind of sweetness. It doesn’t melt on your tongue. But it lasts.