The night was his alone
Andrew trudged home down a narrow lane in the outskirts of Manchester, where rainslick puddles halfconcealed by amber leaves caught the glint of the few street lamps. Late autumn in the north was no excuse for wandering: the damp wind cut straight to the bone, and the houses along the road seemed frozen, indifferent. He quickened his pace as if trying to outrun an unseen weight that had settled on his shoulders since sunrise. Tomorrow was his birthdaya date he habitually tried to ignore.
A familiar pressure built inside him, not a joyous anticipation but a thick, heavy knot in his chest. Every year brought the same routineformal messages, brief calls from colleagues, obligatory smiles. It felt like a foreign play in which he was forced to act the celebrant, though he no longer felt any part of it.
Once, things had been different. As a boy he rose early on his birthday, heart thudding with excitement, convinced a small miracle waited: the smell of a homemade cake with buttercream, the rustle of wrapping paper, his mothers warm voice, the chatter of friends gathered around the table. Back then congratulations arrived with genuine laughter and bustling hands. Now those memories surfaced only rarely, leaving a faint ache in their wake.
He turned the flats door, and a rush of cold air slapped his face. The hallway was a familiar mess: a damp umbrella propped against the wall, jackets haphazardly draped over hooks. He slipped off his boots and paused before the mirror; his reflection showed the fatigue of the past weeks and something elsea lingering sorrow for a lost sense of celebration.
Are you home? Sarah called from the kitchen, eyes bright enough to pierce the gloom.
Yeah he muttered.
They had long settled into these clipped evening exchanges: each to their own task, only meeting over dinner or a cup of tea before bed. Their family ran on routinesteady, predictably dull.
Andrew changed into his houseslacks and drifted into the kitchen where the scent of fresh bread lingered. Sarah was slicing vegetables for a salad.
Will there be many guests tomorrow? he asked, voice flat.
Just as usualyou never liked noisy gatherings. How about we keep it to the three of us? Invite Dave, if you like, she replied.
He nodded, poured himself a mug of tea, and let his thoughts swirl. He understood Sarahs logicwhy throw a big party for the sake of a checkbox? Yet something inside rebelled against this adult thrift on feelings.
The evening stretched on. Andrew thumbed through news on his phone, trying to dodge the nagging thoughts of tomorrow. Still, the question kept looping: why had the birthday become a formality? Where had the joy fled?
At dawn his phone erupted with a barrage of workchat notifications. Colleagues sent the same Happy Birthday! stickers and GIFs. A handful added slightly warmer personal notes, but every phrase sounded indistinguishably hollow.
He typed a mechanical Thanks! or dropped a smiley. The emptiness only deepened; he caught himself wanting to shove the device away and pretend the day didnt exist until next year.
Sarah lifted 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 standing over the stove all day.
Whatever you want
His voice edged with irritation; he instantly regretted the tone, but said no more. Inside, a low boil of helpless discontent churned, aimed at himself and the world alike.
Dave rang around midday.
Hey! Happy birthday, mate! See you this evening?
Sure swing by after work.
Great, Ill bring something for tea.
The call ended as quickly as it began, leaving Andrew with a strange fatigue from the brief exchangeslike they existed more out of habit than genuine desire.
The day slipped by in a halfdream. The flat smelled of coffee mingled with the damp from the hallways wet coat rack; outside the drizzle persisted. Andrew tried to work from home, but childhood memories kept resurfacing: back then any celebration felt like the years pinnacle; now it dissolved into another tick on a calendar.
By evening his mood had sunk into a leaden weight. He finally admitted to himself that he could no longer endure the hollow peace demanded by those around him. He didnt want to keep up appearances for Sarah or Daveeven if it felt awkward or foolish to speak his truth aloud.
When they gathered around the small kitchen table under the soft glow of a lamp, rain drummed the windows with a fierce rhythm, as if underscoring the confinement of their little world in a November storm.
Andrew sat silent, his tea cooling, words refusing to form. He glanced first at Sarah, who offered a tired smile across the table; then at Dave, who was glued to his phone, nodding faintly to music spilling from the next room.
And then it all boiled over.
Listen Ive got something to say, he began.
Sarah set down her spoon; Dave lifted his head.
Ive always thought birthday parties were pointless when theyre just for the sake of it but today I realized something else, he continued, voice caught between anger and yearning.
The room fell into a sudden hush, so absolute that the rain seemed louder.
I miss a real celebration the feeling from when I was a kid, waiting a whole year for this day and believing anything could happen.
He swallowed, his throat tight with emotion.
Sarah met his eyes, concern softening her features. You want to try bringing that back?
Andrew gave a barely perceptible nod.
Dave cracked a warm grin. Ah, now I get why youve been brooding all year!
A lightness rose in Andrews chest.
Alright then, Dave said, rolling his palms together, lets remember how it used to be. You once told me about a cake with buttercream
Without asking, Sarah rose and opened the fridge. There was no sponge cake, no buttercream, but she produced a packet of plain biscuits and a jar of strawberry jam. Andrew couldnt help but smile at the absurd, heartfelt gesture. On the table appeared a modest plate of biscuits, a small bowl of jam, and a ladle of condensed milk. Dave, playing the part of a master chef, tapped his chin.
Quick cake, then! Got candles? he asked.
Sarah rummaged through a drawer, pulling out the halfburned stub of a paraffin candle that had survived the last birthday. She trimmed it to a stub, crooked yet real, and stuck it atop the biscuit tower. Andrew stared at the makeshift desserta humble, unpretentious creationand felt a flicker of the anticipation hed once known.
Music? Dave asked.
Not the radio. Something our parents used to spin, Andrew replied.
Dave fumbled with his phone while Sarah loaded an old playlist on the laptop. Classic tracks from the 80s filled the room, mingling with the rains steady percussion. It was comical to watch grownups stage a small private theatre for one, but the pretence of the usual birthday cards vanished. Each person fell into what they did best: Sarah poured thick tea into sturdy mugs, Dave clapped offbeat to the rhythm, Andrew found himself smiling without the courtesy of politeness.
The flat grew warmer. Fogged windows reflected the lamplight and the wet street beyond; the drizzle persisted, but now Andrew saw it as something distant, while a private weather swirled inside.
Remember playing Charades? Sarah asked suddenly.
Of course! I always lost Andrew laughed.
It wasnt because you were badjust because we all laughed too long, she replied.
They tried the game at the table. An adult pretending to be a kangaroo in front of two other adults felt ridiculous at first, then the forced laughter melted into genuine hilarity. Dave flailed his arms so wildly he almost knocked the tea over; Sarah giggled softly, bright as a firefly; Andrew finally let his face relax, free from the mask of decorum.
They drifted into stories from childhood birthdays: who hid a slice of cake under a napkin for a second helping, the time they shattered Moms china and nobody scolded. Each recollection peeled away the heavy cloud of formality, replacing it with a cozy, glowing warmth. Time ceased to be an enemy.
Andrew sensed the childlike wonder returnthe belief that, at least for one evening, anything was possible. He glanced at Sarah, grateful for her simple, wordless care; he caught Daves understanding gaze across the table, unburdened by sarcasm.
The music faded abruptly. Outside, occasional car headlights skimmed the wet asphalt. The flat felt like an island of light in the bleak autumn.
Sarah refilled the teapot, chuckling. It turned out a bit different, didnt it? But the script isnt what matters, is it?
Andrew nodded, speechless.
He recalled the dread hed felt that morning, as if the birthday had to disappoint or slip past him. Now it seemed a distant misunderstanding. No one expected perfect reactions or grand gestures; no one pushed for merriment just to tick a box in a family calendar.
Dave pulled an old board game from the cupboard. Now were really going back in time!
They played late into the night, debating rules and laughing at each others clumsy moves. The rain outside turned into a soothing lullaby.
Eventually the three sat in quiet under the lamps amber halo. Crumbs of biscuits dotted the table, the jam jar empty, the condensed milk spooned clean. The nights simple feast lingered in the air.
Andrew realized he no longer needed to prove anythingto himself or to anyone else. The celebration had returned not because someone had arranged an immaculate party or bought the perfect cake, but because the people around him were ready to hear him, truly.
He turned to Sarah. Thank you, he whispered.
She answered with a smile that reached only her eyes.
Inside, a calm settledno fireworks, no forced joy, just the right feeling for the right moment, surrounded by his own people. Beyond the window, the soggy city lived its own life; inside, it was warm and bright.
Andrew rose, walked to the window, and watched the puddles reflect the street lamps. The rain fell slowly, as if weary of battling Novembers chill. He thought of the childhood magicalways simple, always made by the hands of those who loved him.
That night he fell asleep easily, without the urge to rush past his birthday.
