Evening for myself
Andrew Miller trudged home down a dim lane where puddles, halfconcealed by fallen oak leaves, glimmered under the weak glow of the streetlamps. Late autumn in the English countryside isnt the time for a stroll a chill wind cut straight to the bone, and the houses seemed especially distant and indifferent. He quickened his step, as if trying to outrun an invisible weight that had settled on him since sunrise. Tomorrow was his birthday a date he habitually tried to ignore.
Inside, a familiar tension grew: not a joyous anticipation, but something heavy and sticky, like a knot lodged deep in his chest. Every year the same routine formal messages, brief calls from colleagues, obligatory smiles. It all felt like a foreign play in which he was forced to act the celebrant, even though he no longer felt that way at all.
Once, things had been different. As a boy, Andrew would rise early and wait for the day with a fluttering heart, believing in a tiny miracle the scent of a homemade cake with buttercream, the rustle of wrapping paper, his mothers warm voice and the chatter of guests gathered around the table. Back then the greetings were genuine, filled with laughter and bustling activity. Now memories of those times came rarely and always left a faint ache behind.
He opened the flats front door the damp air slapped his face even harder. In the hallway the usual mess greeted him: a wet umbrella propped against the wall, jackets haphazardly draped on hooks. Andrew slipped off his shoes and paused at the mirror; his reflection showed the fatigue of recent weeks and something else an elusive sorrow for the lost feeling of celebration.
Are you home? his wife, Emily, called from the kitchen, not waiting for an answer.
Yeah he muttered.
Theyd long ago grown accustomed to these brief evening exchanges: each occupied with their own tasks, meeting only over dinner or a cup of tea before bed. Their life ran on routine reliable, a little dull.
Andrew changed into his lounge wear and drifted into the kitchen, where the smell of fresh bread lingered; Emily was chopping vegetables for a salad.
Will there be many guests tomorrow? he asked, almost without inflection.
Same as always you never liked noisy gatherings Maybe well just have the three of us? Invite Tom, your old mate.
Andrew gave a silent nod and poured himself a mug of tea. Thoughts tangled: he understood Emilys logic why throw a party just for the sake of it? Yet something inside protested at this adultlevel skimping on feelings.
The evening stretched slowly; Andrew flicked through the news on his phone, trying to distract himself from the nagging thoughts about the next day. Still, he kept returning to one question: why had the celebration become a formality? Why had the joy vanished?
In the morning, his phone jolted awake with a long string of notifications from work chats; colleagues sent the usual birthday wishes with stickers and GIFs saying Happy Birthday!. A handful of people added slightly warmer personal messages, but the words all blurred into the same transparent script.
He reflexively replied Thanks! or dropped a smiley under each message. The sense of emptiness only grew: Andrew caught himself wanting to push the phone away and forget his own birthday until the following year.
Emily cranked up the kettle a little louder, trying to fill the silence at the table.
Happy birthday Listen, how about we order a pizza or some sushi tonight? I dont feel like being stuck at the stove all day.
Whatever you like
A flicker of irritation rose in Andrews voice; he immediately regretted it but said nothing more. Inside, a boil of helpless dissatisfaction with himself and the world simmered.
Around midday Tom called:
Hey, mate! Happy birthday! See you later?
Yeah swing by after work.
Great! Ill bring something for tea.
The conversation ended as quickly as it began, leaving Andrew with a strange fatigue from those brief contacts as if they happened not for him, but because thats how things are done.
The day drifted in a halfsleep, the house smelling of coffee mixed with the damp from the hallways wet coat rack rain still drizzling outside. Andrew tried to work from home, but thoughts kept looping back to his childhood: back then any celebration felt like the event of the year; now it dissolved into the routine, just another tick on the calendar.
By evening his mood had turned downright heavy. He finally realised he no longer wanted to endure this void for the sake of everyones peace. He didnt want to put on a show for Emily or for Tom even if it felt awkward or silly to speak his feelings aloud.
When they all gathered around the kitchen table under the soft glow of a lamp, the rain hammered the windows with particular gusto, as if underscoring the closedin world of their little November night.
Andrew sat in silence; the tea grew cold in his mug, words refusing to form. He glanced first at Emily she gave a weary smile across the table then shifted his gaze to Tom, who was buried in his phone, barely nodding to the music leaking from the next room.
And then it all boiled down to a simple statement:
Listen Ive got something to say.
Emily set her spoon down; Tom lifted his head from the screen.
It always seemed foolish to throw a party just for the sake of it but today Ive realised something else.
The room fell so quiet that even the rain seemed louder.
I miss a real celebration the feeling from when I was a kid waiting all year for this day and believing anything could happen.
He stopped, his throat caught from the surge of emotion.
Emily looked at him intently:
You want to try to bring that back?
Andrew gave a barely perceptible nod.
Tom smiled warmly:
Now I get why youve been dragging this around for years!
A lightness settled in Andrews chest.
Well then, Tom said, rubbing his palms, lets remember how it used to be. You once told me about a cake with buttercream
Without a word, Emily rose and walked to the fridge. There was no sponge cake or frosting, but she fetched a packet of plain biscuits and a jar of jam. Andrew couldnt help but grin; the gesture was absurd yet utterly human. On the table appeared a plate of biscuits, a mug of jam, and a small bowl of condensed milk. Tom playfully cupped his hands at his chin:
A quick cake! Got any candles?
Emily rummaged through a drawer of odds and ends and pulled out the stub of a paraffin candle. She snipped it in half it was crooked, but it was a candle. They stuck it into a makeshift mountain of biscuits. Andrew stared at the modest, unpretentious tableau and felt a flicker of anticipation.
Music? Tom asked.
Not the radio something like what our parents used to play, Andrew replied.
Tom fiddled with his phone; Emily queued up an old playlist on the laptop. Voices from a bygone era filled the room, familiar childhood tunes weaving into the rains drumming outside. It was funny to watch grownups suddenly stage a homegrown performance for one of their own, but the farce of conventional greetings vanished. Each did what they knew best: Emily poured tea into sturdy mugs, Tom clapped awkwardly to the beat, Andrew found himself smiling without the usual politeness.
The flat grew warmer. The steamedup windows reflected the lamps glow and the street beyond, where cars passed sparsely, rain still falling. But Andrew now watched the rain differently it was somewhere far off, while a private weather gathered inside.
Remember the game Charades? Emily asked unexpectedly.
Of course! I always lost
It wasnt because you were bad, just because we laughed too long.
They tried to play right at the table. At first it was awkward: an adult mimicking a kangaroo in front of two other adults. Within minutes the laughter turned genuine; Tom flailed his arms so wildly he almost knocked over his tea, Emily giggled softly, and Andrew finally let his face relax.
Later they swapped stories of childhood parties: who hid a slice of cake under a napkin for a second serving, the time they shattered Mums china and no one scolded them. With each reminiscence the atmosphere loosened, shedding the heavy cloud of formality for something cosy and warm. Time ceased to be an enemy.
Andrew suddenly felt that old childlike sense again that everything around could be possible, even if just for one night. He looked at Emily with gratitude for her simple care, caught Toms eye across the table there was understanding without mockery.
The music stopped abruptly. Outside, a few car headlights skimmed the wet pavement. The flat felt like an island of light in a bleak autumn.
Emily poured another cup of tea:
Ive still done it a bit differently but isnt the point the script?
Andrew nodded silently.
He recalled the dread hed felt that morning, as if a birthday had to disappoint or pass him by. Now it seemed a distant misstep. No one expected perfect reactions or gratitude, no one pushed for joy just to tick a box on a family calendar.
Tom dug out an old board game from a cupboard:
Now were really going back in time!
They played late into the evening, arguing over rules and laughing at each others ridiculous moves. Outside the rain tapped a lullaby.
Eventually the three of them sat quietly under the lamps soft light. Crumbs of biscuits littered the table, the jam mug was empty the remnants 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 crafted a perfect plan or bought the right cake, but because the people beside him were ready to hear him, truly.
He looked at Emily:
Thank you
She answered with a smile that lived only in her eyes.
Inside there was calm no hype, no forced cheer, just the feeling of a right evening in the right place with the right people. Beyond the window the rainslick city carried on; inside it was warm and bright.
Andrew rose, walked to the window. The puddles reflected the streetlamps; the rain fell slowly, lazily, as if tired of battling November. He thought of the childhood miracle always simple, made by the hands of those close to you.
That night he fell asleep easily, without the urge to rush past his own birthday.
