Andrew walks home down a dim lane in northwest England, puddles halfhidden beneath a carpet of fallen leaves glinting in the few streetlights that manage to cut through the gloom. Late autumn isnt a season for strolls: a chill wind seeps into his bones, and the houses on either side look especially distant and indifferent. He quickens his step, as if trying to outrun an invisible pressure that has hung over him since sunrise. Tomorrow is his birthday a date he has learned to pretend doesnt exist.
Inside his chest a familiar tension builds, not the eager anticipation of a celebration but a heavy, sticky knot that sits over his heart. Every year the same routine repeats formal messages, brief calls from colleagues, halfhearted smiles. It feels like a foreign play in which he must perform the role of the celebrant, even though he no longer feels like one.
Once, things were different. As a child Andrew would rise early and wait for the day with his heart pounding, believing in a tiny miracle the scent of a homemade Victoria sponge, the rustle of wrapping paper, his mothers warm voice and the chatter of guests around the table. Back then people truly congratulated him, laughing genuinely and bustling about the kitchen. Now memories of that time surface rarely, and each visit leaves a faint ache.
He pushes open the flats front door; a rush of damp air slaps his face. The hallway is a familiar mess: a wet umbrella propped against the wall, jackets haphazardly draped over hooks. Andrew slips off his shoes and pauses at the mirror; his reflection shows the fatigue of recent weeks and something else an elusive sadness for the lost feeling of a proper celebration.
Are you back? his wife, Sarah, calls from the kitchen, not waiting for an answer.
Yeah he replies, the same short exchange theyve fallen into over the years. Evenings now consist of each person minding their own business, meeting only for dinner or a cup of tea before bed. Their family runs on routine dependable, a little dull.
Andrew changes into his housecoat and moves into the kitchen. The air is scented with fresh bread; Sarah is chopping vegetables for a salad.
Will there be many guests tomorrow? he asks, almost without inflection.
Just the usual you never liked noisy gatherings maybe well just have the three of us? Invite your mate Dave, she suggests.
Andrew nods silently and pours himself a mug of tea. He understands Sarahs logic why throw a proper party for the sake of ticking a box? Yet something inside protests at this grownup trimming of feeling.
The evening drags on; Andrew scrolls through news on his phone, trying to distract himself from the nagging thoughts about the next day. He keeps returning to the same question: why has a birthday become a formality? Where did the joy go?
Morning finds his phone buzzing with a stream of workchat notifications; colleagues send standard birthday stickers and GIFs. A handful of people type slightly warmer messages, but every line feels almost identical, translucent. He replies with a perfunctory Thanks! or a smiley, and the emptiness only deepens. He catches himself wanting to shove the phone away and forget his birthday until next year.
Sarah lifts the kettle a little louder to drown out the silence at the table.
Happy birthday Listen, fancy ordering a pizza or some sushi tonight? I dont feel like standing at the stove all day, she offers.
Whatever you like, Andrew says, a trace of irritation in his tone. He immediately regrets it but says nothing more. Inside, a quiet fury brews, aimed both at himself and at the world.
Around midday Dave calls.
Hey! Happy birthday! See you later? he asks.
Yeah swing by after work, Andrew replies.
Great, Ill bring something for tea.
The conversation ends as quickly as it began, leaving Andrew oddly exhausted by these brief contacts as if they exist not for him but because thats how its done.
The day passes in a halfdream. Coffee aroma mixes with the damp smell drifting from the hallway; rain still taps the windows. Andrew tries to work from home, but his thoughts keep drifting back to childhood, when any birthday felt like the event of the year. Now it dissolves into the routine, just another checkbox on a calendar.
By evening his mood has turned heavy. He finally realizes he can no longer endure the hollow peace that comforts everyone else. He doesnt want to keep up appearances for Sarah or Dave even if it feels awkward or foolish to speak his mind out loud.
When they finally gather around the kitchen table under the soft glow of a lamp, the rain drums on the sill louder than usual, as if underscoring the closedin world of their little flat on a November night.
Andrew sits in silence; his tea cools in the mug before him, and words refuse to form. He looks first at Sarah, who gives him a tired smile across the table; then he glances at Dave, who is halffocused on his phone, barely nodding to the music coming from the neighbours living room.
Then he says, Listen I have something to say.
Sarah puts down her spoon; Dave lifts his head from the screen.
Ive always thought it silly to throw a party just for the sake of tradition but today I realised something else.
The room falls quiet so sharply that even the rain seems louder.
I miss a real celebration the feeling from childhood when you wait a whole year for the day and everything feels possible.
He stops, his throat tightening with emotion.
Sarah watches him intently. You want to try to bring that back?
Andrew gives a barely noticeable nod.
Dave grins. Now I finally understand what youve needed all these years!
A lightness lifts Andrews chest.
Alright then, Dave says, rubbing his palms together, lets remember how it used to be. You once talked about a cake with cream
Without asking, Sarah rises and heads to the fridge. Theres no sponge cake, no cream, but she pulls out a packet of simple biscuits and a jar of strawberry jam. Andrew cant help smiling; the gesture is ludicrous and deeply human. On the table appears a plate of biscuits, a mug of jam, and a small bowl of condensed milk. Dave pretends to balance his hands under his chin and says, Quick cake! Got any candles?
Sarah rummages through a drawer of odds and ends and produces the stub of a paraffin candle. She trims it with a knife, leaving a crooked but genuine wick. They stick it into a makeshift mountain of biscuits. Andrew watches the modest display and feels a flicker of anticipation.
Music? Dave asks.
Not the radio, something we used to hear when we were kids, Andrew replies.
Dave fiddles with his phone while Sarah cues up an old playlist on the laptop; vintage pop and the occasional folk tune drift into the room, blending with the rains rhythm. Its funny to see grownups stage a tiny home play just for one of them, but the pretense of usual birthday cards disappears. Each does what they know best: Sarah pours tea into thick mugs, Dave claps awkwardly to the beat, Andrew finds himself smiling without any obligation.
The flat feels warmer. The fogged windows reflect the lamp light and the street outside, still misty. Andrew now watches the rain differently its somewhere far away, while a private weather gathers inside.
Remember the game Charades? Sarah asks suddenly.
Of course! I always lost Andrew laughs.
Not because you were bad, just because we kept giggling too long, she says.
They try a round right at the table. At first it feels odd an adult pretending to be a kangaroo in front of two other adults but within a minute genuine laughter erupts. Dave waves his arms so wildly he almost topples his tea mug; Sarah giggles lightly, and Andrew finally lets his face relax.
They drift into stories of childhood birthdays: who hid a slice of cake under a napkin for a second helping, the time they smashed Mums china set and nobody scolded. Each memory pushes away the heavy cloud of formality, replacing it with a cosy, warm ambience. Time stops feeling like an enemy.
Andrew senses that childhood feeling again the sense that anything is possible, if only for an evening. He looks at Sarah with gratitude for her simple, wordless care; he meets Daves eyes across the table, finding understanding without mockery.
The music ends suddenly. Outside, a few car headlights glide over the wet road. The flat feels like an island of light in the damp autumn.
Sarah tops up the tea. Ive done it a bit differently but isnt the point the story, not the script?
Andrew nods, speechless.
He recalls his morning dread, as if a birthday had to disappoint or slip past him. Now that seems a distant misunderstanding. No one expects perfect reactions or thankyous; no one pushes for joy just to tick a box in a family calendar.
Dave pulls an old board game from the cupboard. Now were really going back in time!
They play late into the night, arguing over rules and laughing at each others silly moves. The rain outside becomes a soothing patter.
Later the three sit quietly under the lamps soft glow. Crumbs of biscuits and an empty jamstained mug are the only evidence of their impromptu feast.
Andrew realises he no longer needs to prove anything to anyone not to himself, not to others. The celebration returns not because someone scripted the perfect party or bought the right cake, but because the people around him are ready to hear him, truly.
He looks at Sarah. Thank you
She returns a smile that lives only in her eyes.
Inside, a calm settles no ecstatic high, no forced cheer, just the right feeling for the right evening with the right people. Outside, the damp city carries on its own life; inside, warmth and light remain.
Andrew rises, walks to the window, and watches the puddles mirror the streetlights. The rain falls slowly, as if tired of arguing with November. He thinks of the childhood wonder it was always a simple act of love from those close to you.
That night he drifts off to sleep easily, without the urge to rush past his birthday.
