Hey love, so imagine this: its late autumn in Manchester, the kind of night where the pavement is slick with puddles halfhidden under a carpet of orange leaves, and the lampposts flicker like theyre trying to stay awake. Andy Hartley is trudging home down that dim lane, the wind getting into his bones, the houses looking all distant and indifferent. Hes picking up his pace, as if he can outrun something thats been hanging over him since this morning. Tomorrows his birthday, and hes doing his best to pretend it doesnt exist.
Inside, that familiar knot in his chest tightens again not the excited kind, more like a heavy, gummy lump. Every year its the same script: polite messages, a few quick calls from colleagues, the usual halfhearted smiles. It feels like a foreign performance where hes supposed to be the star of his own celebration, even though he hasnt felt much like a star in ages.
Back when he was a kid, Andy would leap out of bed at the crack of dawn, heart thumping, waiting for that one day. Hed picture the sweet scent of mums homemade sponge cake with frosting, the rustle of the wrapping paper, Mums warm voice, and a noisy, bustling table. Birthdays then were genuine genuine laughs, genuine chaos. Those memories now surface only now and then, leaving a soft ache behind.
He pushes open the flats front door and a rush of damp air slaps his face. The hallway is the usual mess: a soaked umbrella propped against the wall, coats hanging haphazardly on the hooks. He slips off his shoes, pauses at the mirror and sees the fatigue of the past weeks reflected back, plus a faint, elusive sadness for the lost feeling of a proper celebration.
Hey, youre home? Sophie calls from the kitchen, not waiting for a reply.
Yeah he mutters.
Theyve grown used to these clipped evening exchanges. Each does their own thing, meeting only over dinner or a quick cuppa before bed. Their life runs on routine reliable, a bit boring.
Andy changes into his lounge clothes, heads to the kitchen where the smell of fresh bread fills the air, and Sophie is chopping veg for a salad.
Will there be many guests tomorrow? he asks, almost monotone.
As always, love you dont like big crowds maybe just the three of us? Invite Dave if you like. She gestures toward the empty seat.
Andy nods, pours himself a tea, and his mind spins. He gets why Sophie wants to keep it lowkey why throw a party just for the sake of it? Yet something inside him rebels against this adultsize pinching of feelings.
The evening drags on. He scrolls through news on his phone, tries to distract himself from the nagging thoughts about tomorrow. The question keeps looping: why has a birthday become a formality? Why has the joy vanished?
Morning comes with a barrage of workchat notifications, all the standard Happy Birthday! stickers and GIFs. A handful of colleagues toss in slightly warmer messages, but they all blur together. He replies with a halfhearted Thanks! or a smiley, feeling the emptiness grow. He almost wants to hide his phone and pretend his birthday isnt a thing until next year.
Sophie cranks the kettle a bit louder, trying to drown the quiet at the table.
Happy birthday, love How about we order pizza or sushi tonight? Im not keen on standing at the stove all day.
Whatever you fancy, Andy says, a note of irritation slipping in. He instantly regrets it, but doesnt argue further. Inside, frustration bubbles both with himself and with the world.
Around noon, Dave rings up.
Oi Andy! Happy birthday! See you this evening?
Yeah swing by after work.
Great! Ill bring something for tea.
The chat ends as quickly as it started, leaving Andy oddly drained, as if these brief checkins are just social obligations, not genuine connections.
The whole day feels like a halfsleep. The flat smells of coffee mixed with the damp from the hallway coat rack, and its still drizzling outside. Andy tries to work from home, but his thoughts keep drifting back to childhood, when any birthday felt like the event of the year. Now its just another tick on the calendar.
By evening his mood is heavy. He finally realizes he cant keep swallowing this emptiness just to keep everyone comfortable. He doesnt want to put on a show for Sophie or Dave even if it feels awkward or silly to speak his mind out loud.
When they gather around the kitchen table under the soft glow of a lamp, the rain drums on the window ledge, loud enough to underline how closed off their little world feels in this November downpour.
Andy sits silent, his tea cooling, words stuck. He looks first at Sophie, who gives a tired smile across the table, then at Dave, whos halffocused on his phone, nodding slightly to the music drifting from the next room.
Then he blurted out:
Listen Ive got something to say.
Sophie puts down her spoon, Dave lifts his head.
I always thought celebrating just for the sake of it was pointless but today I realised Im missing something else.
The room falls into a sudden hush, the rain seeming louder than ever.
I miss a real celebration that childhood feeling when you wait the whole year for this day and everything feels possible.
He swallows, his throat tight.
Sophie looks at him, eyes soft.
You want to try and bring that back?
Andy gives a barely noticeable nod.
Dave cracks a warm grin.
Ah, now I get what youve been after all these years!
A lightness settles in Andys chest.
So, lets remember how it used to be. You once told me about a cake with cream
Without a word, Sophie heads to the fridge. Theres no sponge cake, no cream, just a packet of plain biscuits and a jar of jam. Andy cant help but smile the gesture is halfhearted, utterly human. In minutes, a plate appears with biscuits, a mug of jam, and a small bowl of condensed milk. Dave jokes, Quick cake! Got any candles?
Sophie rummages in a drawer, pulls out a stub of a paraffin candle, snaps it in half. Its crooked but real. They stick it on a little mountain of biscuits. Andy watches the modest setup and feels a flicker of the old excitement.
Music? Dave asks.
Not the radio, something Mum used to play, Andy replies.
Dave fiddles with his phone while Sophie queues up an old playlist on the laptop. Classic 80s tunes drift in, mixing with the rains patter. Its funny watching grownups stage a tiny home performance just for one of them, but theres no pretence now. Everyone does what theyre good at: Sophie pours tea into sturdy mugs, Dave claps offbeat to the beat, Andy finds himself smiling genuinely, not just out of politeness.
The flat warms up. Fogged windows reflect the lamps glow and the rainslick street outside. Andy now watches the rain as if its somewhere far away, while a cosy weather brews inside.
Sophie suddenly asks, Remember the game Crocodile?
Oh yeah! I was always terrible at it
It wasnt because you were bad, just because we laughed too long.
They try it right at the table an adult trying to mimic a kangaroo in front of two adults. After a minute the laughter turns real; Dave swings his arms so wildly he nearly knocks over his tea, Sophie giggles softly, and Andy finally lets go of his forced grin.
They swap stories of childhood parties the secret stash of cake under a napkin for a second slice, the time they broke Mums china and nobody scolded them. Each memory chips away at the heavy cloud of formality, replacing it with a snug, warm feeling. Time stops feeling like an enemy.
Andy suddenly feels that old childlike sense that anythings possible, even if just for one evening. He looks at Sophie, grateful for her quiet care, and at Dave, whose eyes hold understanding without any mockery.
The music cuts off abruptly. Outside, a few car headlights flicker over the wet road. The flat feels like an island of light in the bleak autumn.
Sophie tops up the tea, Ive done it a bit differently, havent I? But the script isnt what matters, is it?
Andy nods, silent.
He thinks back to his morning dread, as if a birthday had to disappoint or pass him by. Now that feels like a distant mixup. No one expects perfect reactions or thankyou speeches; no one pushes him to celebrate just to tick a box on the family calendar.
Dave pulls an old board game from the cupboard.
Now were really going back in time!
They play into the night, debating rules, laughing at each others ridiculous moves. The rain outside becomes a soothing lullaby.
Later, the three of them sit quietly under the lamps soft light. Crumbs of biscuits litter the table, the jamfilled mug empty. Andy realizes he doesnt need to prove anything to anyone, not even himself. The celebration is back not because someone bought the perfect cake, but because the people around him are willing to listen, truly.
He looks at Sophie and says simply, Thanks.
She returns a smile thats only in her eyes.
Inside, theres calm no fireworks, no forced joy, just the right feeling for the right evening with the right people. Outside, the wet city goes on its own business; inside its warm and bright.
Andy gets up, walks to the window. The puddles mirror the street lamps, the rain falls slow and lazy, as if exhausted from arguing with November. He thinks of that childhood wonder it was always simple, made by the hands of those close to you.
That night he drifts off easily, without the urge to hide his birthday or rush past it.
