I was heading home down a dim street, the puddles halfhidden under a carpet of fallen leaves glinting under the occasional streetlamp. Late autumn in the north of England isnt really a time for strolls a damp, biting wind got right into my bones, and the houses seemed especially distant and indifferent. I walked a bit faster, as if trying to shake off something invisible thats been hovering over me since morning. Tomorrows my birthday a date Ive learned to pretend isnt there.
Inside, that familiar pressure built up again: not a happy anticipation, but a heavy, sticky knot in my chest. Every year its the same formal emails, quick chats from coworkers, polite smiles. It all feels like a foreign play where Im forced to act the celebrant, even though I havent felt like one for ages.
It used to be different. As a kid Id wake up early, heart thudding with excitement for this day, believing in a little miracle the smell of Mums homemade cake with frosting, the rustle of wrapping paper, her warm voice and the noisy chatter of guests around the table. Back then the wishes were real, with genuine laughter and hustle around the spread. Now those memories surface rarely, and they always leave a soft ache.
I turned the flatdoor key, and the cold air slapped my face even harder. The hallway was the usual mess: a dripping umbrella by the wall, jackets haphazardly hung on hooks. I slipped off my shoes and stopped at the mirror; my face showed the fatigue of the past weeks and something else an elusive sadness for the lost feeling of celebration.
Are you home? Sarah peeked out of the kitchen before I could answer.
Yeah I muttered.
Weve long been used to these brief evening exchanges each of us doing our own thing, meeting only for dinner or a cup of tea before bed. The family runs on routine reliable, a touch boring.
I changed into my tracksuit and wandered into the kitchen where fresh bread was still warm; Sarah was chopping veg for a salad.
Will there be many guests tomorrow? I asked, almost flat.
As always, you dont like big crowds Maybe well just have the three of us? Invite your mate Dave.
I gave a silent nod and poured myself a mug of tea. My thoughts tangled: I understood Sarahs logic why throw a party just for the sake of it? Yet something inside bristled at this grownup scrimping on feelings.
The evening droned on; I flipped through the news on my phone, trying to distract myself from the nagging thoughts about tomorrow. Still, the same question kept circling: why has a celebration turned into a formality? Wheres the joy gone?
Morning arrived with a barrage of notifications from work chats; colleagues sent the usual birthday stickers and GIFs. A handful of people wrote slightly warmer messages, but they all sounded almost identical, polished to the point of translucence.
I replied with a reflexive Thanks! or a smiley emoji. The emptiness only deepened I caught myself wanting to shove the phone away and forget my own birthday until next year.
Sarah turned up the kettle a bit louder, trying to drown the quiet at the table.
Happy birthday How about we order pizza or sushi tonight? Dont feel like standing at the stove all day.
Whatever you fancy, I said, a trace of irritation creeping in. I immediately regretted the tone but didnt bother to explain. Inside, frustration bubbled with myself, with the world.
Around midday Dave called.
Hey! Happy birthday! See you later?
Yeah swing by after work, I replied.
Great! Ill bring something for tea.
The chat ended as quickly as it began, leaving me oddly exhausted by those brief catchups as if they happen not for me, but because thats what people do.
The day drifted in a halfsleep. The flat smelled of coffee mixed with the damp from the hallway coat rack, and rain kept tapping the window. I tried to work from home, but my mind kept drifting back to childhood when any celebration felt like the event of the year. Now its just another tick on the calendar.
By evening my mood was heavy. I finally realised I didnt want to endure this emptiness just to keep everyone comfortable. I didnt want to put on a show for Sarah or Dave even if it felt awkward or funny to speak my truth out loud.
When we all gathered around the kitchen table under the soft glow of the bedside lamp, the rain drummed on the windows louder than usual, as if underscoring the cramped world inside our little flat on a November night.
I sat silent, my tea cooling, words stuck in my throat. I glanced first at Sarah she gave a tired smile across the table then at Dave, who was scrolling on his phone and barely nodding to the music drifting from the next room.
And then it all boiled down to a simple statement.
Listen Ive got something to say.
Sarah set her spoon down, Dave lifted his head.
Ive always thought birthdays were pointless if theyre just for the sake of it but today I realised something else.
The room fell so quiet that even the rain seemed louder.
I miss a real celebration that childhood feeling when you wait all year for this day and everything feels possible.
I swallowed, my throat tight with nerves.
Sarah looked at me closely.
You want to try getting that back?
I nodded just barely.
Dave cracked a warm grin.
Ah, now I see what youve been missing all these years!
A lightness settled in my chest.
Well then, Dave said, rubbing his hands together, lets remember how it used to be. You once talked about a cake with frosting
Without asking, Sarah got up and opened the fridge. There was no sponge cake or frosting, just a packet of biscuits and a jar of jam. I couldnt help but smile the gesture was ridiculous, but utterly human. In a flash, a plate of biscuits, a mug of jam, and a small bowl of condensed milk appeared on the table. Dave jokingly held his hands to his chin.
Quick cake! Got any candles?
Sarah fished in the junk drawer, pulled out the stub of a paraffin candle, trimmed it down it looked crooked but genuine. We stuck it on a tiny mountain of biscuits. I stared at that modest, homemade centerpiece and felt a flicker of the oldtime anticipation.
Music? Dave asked.
Not the radio something Mum and Dad used to play, I replied.
Dave fiddled with his phone while Sarah hit play on an old playlist on the laptop. Classic 80s tunes floated in, weaving with the rains hiss. Watching grownups stage a little home theatre for me was funny, but the usual false cheer was gone. Everyone did what they knew: Sarah poured tea into thick mugs, Dave clapped awkwardly to the beat, and I found myself smiling for real, not just politeness.
The flat grew warmer. Fogged windows reflected the lamps glow and the drizzleslick street outside. I now watched the rain as something far away, while a cosy weather settled in here.
Remember playing Charades? Sarah asked suddenly.
Of course! I always lost
Not because you were bad just because we laughed too long, she laughed.
We tried it right at the table. At first it was awkward an adult pretending to be a kangaroo for two other adults. Within a minute the laughter turned genuine: Dave flailed his arms almost spilling his tea, Sarah giggled softly, and I finally let go of my forced expressions.
We swapped stories of childhood parties who hid a slice of cake under a napkin for a second help, the time we broke Mums china and nobody shouted. Each memory peeled away the heavy cloud of formality, replacing it with a snug, warm feeling. Time stopped feeling like an enemy.
I suddenly felt that childhood spark again when everything seems possible, even if just for one night. I looked at Sarah with gratitude for her quiet care, caught Daves eye across the table there was understanding, no sarcasm.
The music faded abruptly. Outside, a few car headlights flickered over the wet road. The flat felt like an island of light in a dreary autumn.
Sarah poured more tea.
Looks a bit different now but the script isnt the point, is it?
I gave a silent nod.
I recalled the mornings dread as if the day had to disappoint or pass me by. Now it seemed a distant mishap. No one expected perfect reactions or grand gestures; nobody pushed me to celebrate just to tick a box on the family calendar.
Dave pulled an old board game from the cupboard.
Now were really going back in time!
We played late into the night, arguing over rules and laughing at each others silly moves. The rain outside turned into a gentle lullaby.
Later, the three of us sat quietly under the lamps soft glow. Crumbs of biscuits littered the table, a empty jamstained mug sat beside a halffilled condensedmilk bowl the remnants of our makeshift feast.
I realised I didnt need to prove anything to anyone. The celebration came back not because someone concocted a perfect plan or bought the right cake, but because the people around me were ready to hear me, truly.
I turned to Sarah.
Thanks
She smiled with her eyes.
Inside, there was a calm no frantic joy or forced happiness, just the feeling of a right evening in the right place with the right people. Outside, the wet city kept its own rhythm; inside it was warm and bright.
I rose, walked to the window. The puddles reflected the streetlamps; the rain fell slowly, lazily, as if tired of fighting November. I thought of that childhood magic it was always a simple thing, done by close hands.
That night I fell asleep easily, without the urge to rush past my birthday.
