Andrew trudged home down a dim lane in the outskirts of Manchester, where shallow puddles halfconcealed by amber leaves caught the flicker of the few streetlamps. Late autumn in the north of England isnt meant for wandering: a damp, cutting wind slipped straight to the bone, and the houses loomed distant and indifferent. He quickened his pace as if trying to outrun an unseen weight that had settled over him since dawn. Tomorrow was his birthdaya date he habitually tried to ignore.
Inside his chest a familiar tension swelled: not a joyful anticipation, but a thick, heavy knot as if something had lodged itself deep within. Year after year the same routine unfoldedformal messages, brief calls from colleagues, perfunctory smiles. It all felt like a foreign play in which he was forced to act the celebrant, even though he no longer felt any part of it.
Once, things had been different. As a child, Andrew would rise early, heart pounding, waiting for that day, believing in a tiny miraclethe scent of a homemade cake with frosting, the rustle of gift wrap, his mothers warm voice and the chatter of guests around the table. Back then congratulations were genuine, filled with hearty laughs and bustling activity. Now memories of those times surfaced rarely, each visit leaving a faint ache.
He pushed open the flats front doorcold air slapped his face harder. The hallway greeted him with its usual chaos: a dripping umbrella propped against the wall, jackets haphazardly draped on hooks. Andrew slipped off his boots and paused at the mirror; his reflection showed weeks of fatigue and something elsea lingering grief for a lost sense of celebration.
Are you home? Imogens voice called from the kitchen, cutting the silence before he could answer.
Yeah he muttered.
They had long fallen into these terse evening exchanges; each kept to their own tasks, meeting only over dinner or a cup of tea before bed. Their family ran on routinereliable, if a touch dull.
Andrew changed into his lounge wear and drifted into the kitchen, where fresh bread filled the air; Imogen was chopping vegetables for a salad.
Will there be many guests tomorrow? he asked, his tone flat.
As always, you hate noisy crowds Maybe well just the three of us? Invite your mate Simon.
Andrew gave a silent nod and poured himself a mug of tea. Thoughts tangled: he understood Imogens logicwhy stage a celebration just for the sake of it? Yet something inside bristled against this adult pennypinching of feelings.
The evening stretched slowly; Andrew scrolled through news on his phone, trying to dodge the relentless thoughts of the next day. Still he kept circling back to one question: why had the holiday become a formality? Why had joy fled?
Morning arrived with his phone buzzing a relentless chorus from work chats; colleagues sent the usual birthday stickers and GIFsHappy Birthday! A handful typed slightly warmer personal notes, but the words all blended into a translucent sameness.
He reflexively typed Thanks! or dropped a smiley. The emptiness deepened: Andrew caught himself wanting to shove the phone away and forget his own birthday until the next year.
Imogen turned up the kettle a notch louder, trying to drown the hush at the table.
Happy birthday Listen, fancy ordering pizza or sushi tonight? I dont feel like standing over the stove all day.
Whatever you like
A flash of irritation slipped into Andrews voice; he immediately regretted it but said nothing more. Inside, a boil of helpless dissatisfaction with himself and the world boiled over.
Around noon Simon called.
Hey! Happy birthday! See you later?
Yeah swing by after work.
Great! Ill bring something for tea.
The call ended as abruptly as it began, leaving Andrew with a strange fatigue from those clipped exchangesas if they existed not for him but because it was expected.
The day drifted in a halfsleep; the flat smelled of coffee mixed with the dampness of wet coats hanging in the hall, while a light drizzle persisted outside. Andrew tried to work from home, but childhood memories kept surfacing: back then any celebration felt like the event of the year; now it dissolved into another checkbox on the calendar.
By evening his mood had turned heavy. He finally realized he could no longer tolerate this hollow calm for the sake of everyones peace. He didnt want to pretend, not to his wife, not to his friendno matter how awkward or ridiculous it might sound to voice his feelings.
When they all gathered around the kitchen table under the soft glow of a desk lamp, rain hammered the window sill louder than usualemphasising the claustrophobia of their tiny world in Novembers gloom.
Andrew sat silent; his tea went cold, words refusing to form. He glanced first at Imogenshe offered a weary smile across the table; then at Simon, who was halfglued to his phone, nodding faintly to the music drifting from the next room.
And then, with a breath that seemed to pull the room together, he spoke.
Listen Ive got something to say.
Imogen set her spoon down; Simon lifted his head from the screen.
Ive always thought celebrations were pointless when theyre just for show but today I realized something else.
The room fell so still that even the rain seemed louder.
I miss a real celebration the feeling from childhood when you wait the whole year for a day and everything feels possible.
His throat tightened, the words catching.
Imogens eyes locked onto his.
Do you want to try to bring that back?
Andrew gave a barely perceptible nod.
Simon cracked a warm grin.
Now I get why youve been brooding all these years!
A lightness rose in Andrews chest.
Alright then, Simon said, rubbing his palms, lets remember how it used to be. You once told me about a cake with frosting
Without asking, Imogen rose and opened the fridge. There was no sponge cake, no frosting, but she fetched a packet of plain biscuits and a jar of strawberry jam. Andrew couldnt help a smile; the gesture was absurdly simple and deeply human. In minutes a modest plate of biscuits, a mug of jam, and a small bowl of condensed milk appeared. Simon playfully cradled his chin.
A quick cake! Got any candles?
Imogen rummaged through a drawer, pulling out the stub of a paraffin candle, snipping it in half. It was crooked but real. They stuck it atop a makeshift mountain of biscuits. Andrew surveyed the humble tableauunpretentious, earnestand felt a flicker of the old anticipatory joy.
Music? Simon asked.
Not the radio, something we used to hear as kids, Andrew replied.
Simon fiddled with his phone while Imogen loaded an old playlist on the laptop. Voices from a bygone decade filled the room, familiar childhood tunes weaving into the rains steady drum. It was oddly comic to watch grownups stage a private theatre for one of their own, yet the falsehood of generic birthday wishes vanished. Each did what they knew best: Imogen poured thick tea into sturdy mugs; Simon clapped awkwardly to the beat; Andrew found himself smiling without the filter of politeness.
The flat grew warmer. Fogged windows reflected the lamp light and the street beyond, where a few cars passed through the drizzle. Andrew now watched the rain as if it were somewhere else, while his own weather gathered inside.
Remember the game Crocodile? Imogen asked suddenly.
Of course! I always lost
It wasnt because I was bad at acting! We just laughed too long.
They tried the game at the table. At first it was uncomfortablea grown man mimicking a kangaroo in front of two adultsbut within a minute genuine laughter erupted: Simon flailed his arms, almost toppling his tea; Imogen chuckled softly and brightly; Andrew finally let his face loosen.
They swapped stories of childhood parties: who hid cake pieces under napkins for a second serving, the time a family china set shattered and no one scolded anyone. Each recollection peeled away the weight of formalities, replacing it with a snug, warm glow. Time stopped feeling like an enemy.
Andrew caught himself in that childlike sensation againeverything seemed possible, if only for one evening. He looked at Imogen with gratitude for her simple, wordless care; he met Simons eyes across the table and found understanding without mockery.
The music stopped abruptly. Outside, distant headlights skimmed the wet asphalt. The flat felt like an island of light amid the dreary autumn.
Imogen refilled the tea.
Looks a bit different, but isnt the point the script?
Andrew nodded wordlessly.
He recalled his morning dread, as if a birthday had to disappoint or slip past him. Now it seemed a distant misunderstanding. No one expected flawless reactions or grand gestures; no one pushed for joy just to tick a box on a family calendar.
Simon pulled an old board game from the cupboard.
Now were truly back in the past!
They played well into the night, debating rules, laughing at each others absurd moves. Outside, the rain turned lullabylike.
Later the three sat in quiet, the lamps amber wash soft on their faces. Crumbs of biscuits and an empty jam mug lingered on the tableremnants of their makeshift feast.
Andrew realized he no longer needed to prove anything to himself or anyone else. The celebration had returned not because anyone concocted a perfect plan or bought an ideal cake, but because the people around him were ready to hear him, truly.
He turned to Imogen.
Thank you
She answered with a smile that lived only in her eyes.
Inside, calm settledno ecstatic fireworks, no forced cheer. Just the right evening in the right place among the right people. Outside, the soggy city carried on; inside it was warm and bright.
Andrew rose, walked to the window. Puddles mirrored the streetlamps; rain fell slow and lazy, as if exhausted from a days argument with November. He thought of the childhood wondera simple miracle crafted by close hands.
That night he fell asleep easily, without the urgent desire to forget his own birthday.
