Andrew trudged home down a dim lane, the shallow puddles halfhidden beneath a carpet of fallen leaves, catching the occasional flicker of a streetlamp. Late autumn in the Midlands isnt exactly made for wandering: a damp wind cut straight to the bone, and the houses along the road seemed especially distant and indifferent. He quickened his step as if trying to outrun an invisible weight that had settled on his shoulders since sunrise. Tomorrow was his birthdaya date hed learned to ignore.
Inside his mind a familiar pressure built up: not the joyful anticipation of a party, but a heavy, viscous knot in his chest. Year after year the same routine formal messages, brief calls from coworkers, rote smiles. It all felt like a foreign play in which he was forced to act the celebrant, even though he no longer felt any of the pomp.
Once, things had been different. As a child Andrew would stir early, heart thudding, waiting for the day with a mix of excitement and belief in a tiny miraclethe smell of a homemade cake with frosting, the rustle of wrapping paper, his mothers warm voice and the chatter of noisy guests around the table. Back then greetings were genuine, accompanied by real laughter and hustle in the kitchen. Now those memories appeared only sparingly and always left a faint ache behind.
He fumbled the apartment door open; a burst of chilly air slapped his face harder. The hallway was the usual chaotic welcome: a damp umbrella propped against the wall, jackets haphazardly draped on hooks. Andrew slipped off his shoes and paused before the mirror; his reflection showed the fatigue of recent weeks and something elsean elusive melancholy for the lost feeling of celebration.
Are you home? his wife, Poppy, called from the kitchen before he could answer.
Yeah he muttered.
Theyd long ago settled into these clipped evening exchanges: each occupied with their own tasks, meeting only over dinner or a cup of tea before bed. Their family ran on routinereliable, a touch boring.
Andrew changed into his lounge wear and padded into the kitchen, where fresh bread scented the air while Poppy chopped vegetables for a salad.
Will there be many guests tomorrow? he asked, almost without inflection.
Same as always: you dont like noisy crowds maybe well just have the three of us? Invite your friend Tom, she replied.
Andrew nodded wordlessly and poured himself a mug of tea. He understood her logic why bother with a big celebration just for the sake of ticking a box? Yet something inside bristled against this adultsized pennypinching of emotions.
The evening stretched lazily; Andrew scrolled through news on his phone, trying to distract himself from the nagging thoughts of the next day. Still, the same question kept looping: why had the celebration turned into a formality? Where had the joy gone?
Morning found his phone buzzing with a cascade of workchat notifications; colleagues sent the standard birthday stickers and GIFs, Happy Birthday! A handful of people added slightly warmer personal messages, but the words all blurred into one another as if filtered through a frosted pane.
He reflexively typed Thanks! or dropped a smiley emoji. The hollow feeling only grew: Andrew caught himself wanting to shove the phone out of reach and pretend his birthday didnt exist until next year.
Poppy turned the kettle up a notch, trying to drown the quiet that settled over the table.
Congratulations How about we order pizza or sushi tonight? Im not keen on spending the whole day at the stove, she suggested.
Whatever you like, he replied, a flicker of irritation slipping through his tone. He instantly regretted it but said nothing more. Inside, a stew of helpless frustration simmered, aimed at both himself and the world.
Around noon Tom rang up.
Hey! Happy birthday! Meeting later? he asked.
Yeah swing by after work, Andrew replied.
Great! Ill bring something for tea, Tom said.
The call ended as quickly as it began, leaving Andrew oddly weary of these brief exchangesas if they existed more out of custom than genuine interest.
The day drifted in a halfsleep. The flat smelled of coffee mixed with the lingering damp from the hallway coat rack; outside the drizzle persisted. Andrew tried to work from home, but his mind kept looping back to childhood, when any holiday felt like the event of the year. Now it dissolved into another tick on the calendar.
By evening his mood had turned genuinely heavy; he finally admitted to himself that he no longer wanted to endure this emptiness for the sake of everyones peace. He didnt want to pretend in front of Poppy or Tomeven if it felt awkward or a bit funny to voice his true feelings.
When the three gathered around the kitchen table under the soft glow of a lamp, rain drummed the windows with extra insistence, underscoring the claustrophobia of their little world on a November night.
Andrew sat in silence, his tea cooling, words refusing to form. He glanced first at Poppy, who gave a tired smile across the table; then at Tom, who was halflost in his phone, nodding faintly to some unseen rhythm from the next room.
And then he blurted out, Listen Ive got something to say.
Poppy set down her spoon; Tom finally looked up.
Ive always thought celebrating just for the sake of a checkbox was silly but today Ive realised something else. The room fell so quiet that even the rain seemed louder.
I miss a real celebration the kind from childhood when you wait a whole year for a day and everything feels possible. His throat tightened with excitement.
Poppy met his eyes, You want to try bringing that back?
Andrew gave a barely perceptible nod.
Tom grinned, Ah, now I get why youve been brooding all year!
A lightness settled in Andrews chest.
Alright, Tom said, rubbing his palms together, lets reminisce. You used to talk about a cake with frosting
Without a word, Poppy rose and rummaged the fridge. There was no sponge cake, no frosting, but she produced a packet of plain biscuits and a jar of strawberry jam. Andrew couldnt help but smile; the gesture was goofy and utterly human. In seconds a plate of biscuits, a mug of jam, and a small bowl of sweetened condensed milk appeared. Tom, playing the part of a chef, held his hands to his chin and declared, Quick cake! Got any candles?
Poppy dug into a junk drawer and rescued the stub of a paraffin candle, snipping it in half. It was crooked, but it was a candle. They stuck it atop the makeshift mountain of biscuits. Andrew stared at the modest tableau and felt a faint echo of anticipation.
Music? Tom asked.
Not the radio, lets play the stuff Mom used to have on the old record player, Andrew replied.
Tom fumbled with his phone while Poppy queued up an old playlist on the laptop; the crackle of 80s hits and familiar childhood tunes mingled with the rains patter. It was amusing to watch grownups stage a tiny home theatre for one person, yet the pretense of obligatory greetings evaporated. Each person did what they knew best: Poppy poured tea into thick mugs, Tom clapped along to the beat with a shy grin, and Andrew found himself smiling for no reason other than the moment itself.
The flat grew warmer. Fogged windows reflected the lamps glow and the streets occasional passing cars; outside the drizzle persisted, but Andrew now saw it as a backdrop rather than an intrusion.
Remember playing Crocodile? Poppy asked suddenly.
Of course! I always lost, Andrew laughed.
Not because you were bad, just because we all laughed too long. They tried the game at the table. At first it was awkward an adult mimicking a kangaroo for two other adults but within a minute genuine laughter erupted. Tom flailed his arms so wildly he almost knocked over his tea; Poppy giggled, bright and airy; Andrew finally let his face relax completely.
They then swapped stories of childhood parties: the kid who hid a slice of cake under a napkin for a second helping, the time someone shattered Mums china and no one scolded them. With each recollection the oppressive cloud of formality lifted, replaced by a cosy, warm glow. Time stopped feeling like an enemy.
Andrew sensed that oldchildlike feeling againthe one where everything feels possible, even if just for an evening. He looked at Poppy with gratitude for her simple, wordless care, caught Toms eye across the table and found understanding without a hint of sarcasm.
The music abruptly cut out. Sparse headlights skimmed the wet pavement outside. Their flat felt like an island of light in a bleak autumn.
Poppy poured another round of tea, It turned out a bit different, didnt it? But the script isnt the point, is it?
Andrew nodded silently.
He recalled the morning dread, the notion that a birthday had to disappoint or pass him by. Now it seemed a distant misunderstanding. No one expected perfect reactions or grand thankyous; nobody forced joy simply to check a box in the family calendar.
Tom pulled an old board game from the cupboard, Now were really going back in time!
They played late into the night, arguing about rules and laughing at each others ridiculous moves. Outside, the rain drummed a lullaby.
Eventually the three sat in the soft lamplight, the table littered with biscuit crumbs and an empty jam mug, evidence of their modest feast.
Andrew realised he no longer needed to prove anything to himself or anyone else. The celebration had returned not because someone had scripted a perfect party or bought a fancy cake, but because the people around him were ready to hear him truly.
He turned to Poppy, Thank you.
She answered with a smile that lived only in her eyes.
Inside there was calmno fireworks, no forced cheer, just the satisfying sense of a righttime evening in the right place with the right people. Outside the city continued its wet life; inside it was warm and bright.
Andrew rose, walked to the window. The puddles mirrored the streetlights; the rain fell slowly, as if tired of arguing with November. He thought of the childhood miraclesimple, made possible by the hands of loved ones.
That night he drifted off easily, without the urge to rush past his own birthday.
