Evening for One
Andrew Miller trudged home down a dim lane in the outskirts of York, where puddles halfconcealed by fallen leaves glimmered under the occasional streetlamp. Late autumn in the north of England isnt exactly a strollinthepark: a damp, bonechilling wind cut straight through his coat, and the houses seemed farther away and rather indifferent. He quickened his pace as if trying to outrun some invisible cloud that had hovered over him since sunrise. Tomorrow was his birthday a date he habitually tried to pretend didnt exist.
Inside, the familiar tension grew: not joyful anticipation, but a sticky, heavy feeling, like a lump had lodged itself in his chest. Every year the same routine formal ecards, short workchat messages, obligatory smiles. It all felt like a foreign play in which he was forced to act the celebrant, even though he no longer felt the part.
Once, things had been different. As a child, Andrew would wake early, heart thumping, waiting for that day, believing in a tiny miracle the scent of mums homemade cake with icing, the rustle of wrapping paper, mums warm voice, and the noisy chatter of guests around the table. Back then, birthday wishes were genuine, accompanied by hearty laughter and a flurry of activity. Now those memories drifted up only occasionally, always leaving a faint tug of longing.
He pushed open the flats entrance door a rush of damp air slapped his face harder. The hallway greeted him with the usual chaos: a wet umbrella propped against the wall, jackets haphazardly draped over hooks. Andrew slipped off his shoes and lingered in front of the mirror; his face reflected weeks of fatigue and something else an elusive melancholy for the lost feeling of celebration.
Did you get in? Lucy, his wife, popped her head out of the kitchen, not waiting for an answer.
Yeah he muttered.
Theyd long since settled into these terse evening exchanges: each doing their own thing, meeting only for dinner or a quick cup of tea before bed. The family ran on routine reliable, if a tad dull.
Andrew changed into his loungewear and drifted into the kitchen, where fresh bread scent hung in the air while Lucy sliced veg for a salad.
Will there be many guests tomorrow? he asked, almost without inflection.
As always, you hate noisy crowds maybe well just be the three of us? Invite your mate Simon.
Andrew gave a silent nod and poured himself a mug of tea. His thoughts tangled: he understood Lucys logic why bother with a fullblown party just for the sake of ticking a box? Yet something inside bristled at this adultlevel pennypinching of feelings.
The evening stretched lazily; Andrew flicked through news on his phone, trying to dodge the nagging thoughts of the upcoming day. Still, one question kept resurfacing: why had the celebration turned into a formality? Where had the joy disappeared to?
Morning arrived with a barrage of notification chimes from work chats. Colleagues sent the usual birthday stickers and GIFs that read Happy Birthday!. A handful slipped in slightly warmer personal messages, but they all sounded eerily similar, transparent as glass.
He reflexively typed Thanks! or dropped a smiley under each. The emptiness only deepened: Andrew found himself yearning to tuck his phone away and forget his own birthday until next year.
Lucy turned up the kettle a bit louder, trying to drown the silence at the table.
Happy birthday Listen, how about we order a pizza or some sushi tonight? I dont feel like spending the whole day at the stove.
Whatever you like Andrew replied, a hint of irritation slipping through. He immediately regretted the tone but said nothing more, his inner broth bubbling with a mix of selfdiscontent and worldwide bewilderment.
Around midday, Simon rang.
Hey! Happy birthday! See you later?
Yeah swing by after work.
Great! Ill bring something for tea.
The call ended as quickly as it began; Andrew felt a strange fatigue from these bitesize interactions, as if they happened more out of habit than genuine interest.
The day drifted in a halfasleep haze. The flat smelled of coffee mixed with the dampness from wet coats hanging by the hall rain still drizzling outside. Andrew tried to work from home, but childhood memories kept popping up: back then any birthday felt like the event of the year; now it dissolved into another tick on the calendar.
By evening his mood was decidedly heavy. He finally realised he couldnt keep swallowing the void just to keep everyone comfortable. He didnt want to pretend for Lucy or Simon even if it felt awkward or a bit ridiculous to voice his feelings out loud.
When they all gathered around the kitchen table under the soft glow of a bedside lamp, the rain hammered the windows more loudly than usual, as if underscoring the snug little world theyd created in November gloom.
Andrew sat quiet; his tea grew cold, his words stuck in his throat. He glanced first at Lucy, who offered a weary smile across the table, then at Simon, who was glued to his phone, nodding faintly to the music drifting from the livingroom.
And then, with a sigh that could have been a sigh of relief, he blurted:
Listen Ive got something to say.
Lucy set her spoon down; Simon lifted his head from the screen.
I always thought it was silly to celebrate just to check a box but today I realised something else.
The room fell so quiet it seemed the rain had turned up the volume.
I miss a real birthday that childhood feeling when you wait the whole year for this day and everything feels possible.
His throat tightened from the sudden surge of emotion.
Lucy fixed her gaze on him.
You want to try bringing that back?
Andrew gave a barelynoticeable nod.
Simon cracked a warm grin.
Ah, now I get what youve been needing all these years!
A lightness settled in Andrews chest.
Right then, Simon said, rubbing his palms, lets reminisce. You once talked about a cake with frosting
Without a word, Lucy rose and padded to the fridge. There was no sponge cake or frosting, but she produced a pack of plain biscuits and a jar of jam. Andrew couldnt help but smile the gesture was absurd yet utterly human. In moments, a plate of biscuits, a mug of jam, and a small bowl of condensed milk appeared. Simon, feigning a chefs pose, asked:
Quick cake! Got any candles?
Lucy rummaged through a junk drawer and pulled out the stub of a paraffin candle. She trimmed it to a crooked halfstick, enough to look like a genuine, if lopsided, birthday candle. They stuck it atop the biscuit mountain. Andrew stared at the humble tableau modest, unpretentious and felt a flicker of the anticipation hed missed.
Music? Simon asked.
Not the radio, something mum used to play, Andrew replied.
Simon fumbled with his phone while Lucy hit play on an old laptop playlist. Vintage tunes from the 80s filled the flat, weaving themselves into the rains chatter outside. It was oddly funny to watch grownups stage a makeshift home performance for one of them. The usual façade of polite birthday wishes melted away; everyone simply did what they knew best: Lucy poured tea into sturdy mugs, Simon clapped awkwardly to the beat, and Andrew caught himself smiling without any social imperative.
The flat grew cozier. Fogged windows reflected the lamps amber light and the quiet street beyond, where drizzle still fell. But now Andrew watched the rain as a distant backdrop rather than a personal storm.
Remember the game Crocodile? Lucy asked suddenly.
Of course! I always lost
Not because you were bad at acting, just because we laughed too long.
They tried the game at the table. At first it was absurd an adult pretending to be a kangaroo in front of two other adults but within a minute genuine laughter bubbled up. Simon flailed his arms so wildly he nearly knocked over his tea, Lucy giggled lightly, and Andrew finally let his face relax.
They swapped stories about childhood birthdays: who hid a slice of cake under a napkin for a second helping, the time the familys china shattered but nobody scolded anyone. Each recollection peeled away the heavy cloud of formality, replacing it with warmth and snugness. Time stopped being an enemy.
Andrew suddenly felt that childhood spark again the sense that anything was possible, if only for one evening. He looked at Lucy with gratitude for her simple, wordless care, and caught Simons eye across the table, finding understanding without any sarcasm.
The music ended abruptly. Outside, a few headlights skimmed the wet pavement. The flat felt like an island of light in a soggy autumn night.
Lucy poured another mug of tea.
Looks like Ive still got my own version of today but the script isnt what matters, right?
Andrew gave a silent nod.
He recalled his morning dread, the fear that the day would have to disappoint or simply pass him by. Now it seemed a distant, ridiculous misunderstanding. No one expected perfect reactions or grand thankyous; no one forced fun just to tick a calendar box.
Simon dug out an old board game from the cupboard.
Now were really travelling back in time!
They played until late, debating rules and laughing at each others ridiculous moves. The rain outside turned into a soothing lullaby.
Later, the three sat quietly under the lamps mellow glow. Crumbs dotted the table, a solitary jamstained mug stood empty the remnants of their makeshift feast.
Andrew realised he didnt need to prove anything to anyone, not even himself. The birthday had returned not because someone bought a perfect cake or choreographed an ideal party, but because the people around him were ready to hear him, truly.
He turned to Lucy.
Thank you
She replied with a smile that lived solely in her eyes.
Inside, calm settled no euphoric highs or forced joy, just the contentment of a rightontime evening with the right people. Outside, the damp city carried on its business; inside, it was warm and bright.
Andrew rose, drifted to the window, and watched the puddles mirror the streetlights. The rain fell slowly, as if exhausted from arguing with November. He thought of the simple miracle of childhood birthdays: nothing fancy, just the hands of those who cared.
That night he fell asleep easily, without the urgent urge to forget his own birthday.
