Andrew Thompson trudged home down a dim lane where puddles, halfhidden beneath fallen leaves, glimmered under the occasional streetlamp. Late autumn in the north of England isnt a time for wandering: a damp, bonechilling wind sliced through him, and the houses loomed 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 birthday a date he habitually tried to ignore.
Inside, a familiar tension coiled: not a happy anticipation, but something thick and heavy, like a knot lodged in his chest. Every year the same routine perfunctory messages, brief calls from colleagues, forced smiles. It all felt like a foreign play in which he was forced to act the celebrant, though he no longer felt any of it.
Once, things had been different. As a boy, Andrew would wake early, heart thudding, waiting for this day. He believed in a small miracle the scent of a homemade Victoria sponge, the rustle of wrapping paper, his mothers warm voice and the noisy chatter of guests around the table. Back then the congratulations were genuine, accompanied by hearty laughter and bustling around the kitchen. Now memories of that time surfaced only rarely, always leaving a faint ache.
He turned the flatblock door the cold air slapped his cheek harder. The hallway greeted him with its usual chaos: a dripping umbrella by the wall, coats haphazardly draped on hooks. Andrew slipped off his shoes and paused before the mirror; his reflection showed the fatigue of recent weeks and something else an elusive sadness for the lost feeling of celebration.
Are you in? Poppy called from the kitchen before he could answer.
Yeah he muttered.
They had long grown accustomed to these clipped evening exchanges: each occupied with his own business, meeting only at dinner or over a cup of tea before bed. Their family ran on routine reliable and a touch dull.
Andrew changed into his houselounge and headed to the kitchen. The air was scented with fresh bread; Poppy was slicing vegetables for a salad.
Will there be many guests tomorrow? he asked, almost without inflection.
As always, you dont like noisy crowds Maybe well just have the three of us? Invite your mate Tom.
Andrew nodded silently and poured himself a mug of tea. Thoughts tangled: he understood Poppys logic why throw a party just for show? Yet something inside bristled at this grownup thrift on emotions.
The evening drummed on; Andrew scrolled through news on his phone, trying to distract himself from the nagging thoughts of the next day. Still he returned to one question: why had the celebration become a formality? Why had the joy vanished?
In the morning his phone erupted with a cascade of workchat notifications; colleagues sent standard birthday wishes with stickers and GIFs Happy Birthday! A handful of people added slightly warmer messages, but all the words blended into a translucent sameness.
He replied mechanically with Thanks! or a smiley. The emptiness deepened: Andrew caught himself wanting to shove the phone away and forget his own birthday until the next year.
Poppy turned up the kettle a notch louder, trying to drown the silence at the table.
Happy birthday How about ordering a pizza or some sushi tonight? I dont feel like standing at the stove all day.
Whatever you like
A flicker of irritation rose in Andrews voice; he instantly regretted it, but said nothing more. Inside, a stew of powerless discontent simmered, aimed at both himself and the world.
Around midday Tom called:
Hey! Happy birthday! See you later?
Yeah Drop by after work.
Great! Ill bring something for tea.
The conversation ended as quickly as it began; Andrew felt a strange fatigue from these brief contacts as if they existed not for him but because its what people do.
The whole day passed in a halfsleep. The flat smelled of coffee mixed with the dampness from the wet coat rack rain still tapping against the windows. Andrew tried to work from home, but his mind kept drifting back to childhood, when every 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 heavy; Andrew finally realized he could no longer tolerate the void for the sake of everyones peace. He didnt want to put on a show for his wife or his friend even if it felt awkward or foolish to speak his feelings aloud.
When they all gathered around the low lamp, rain drummed on the sill louder than usual as if underscoring the cramped world of their November evening.
Andrew sat in silence; the tea grew cold in his mug, words refusing to form. He looked first at Poppy she offered a tired smile across the table; then he shifted his gaze to Tom, who was glued to his phone, nodding faintly to music from the next room.
And then everything snapped to the point:
Listen I have something to say.
Poppy set her spoon down; Tom lifted his head from the screen.
It always seemed silly to throw parties just for the sake of checking a box but today I realised something else.
The room fell so quiet that the rains patter seemed louder than ever.
I miss a real celebration that childhood feeling when you wait the whole year for a day and everything feels possible.
He swallowed, his throat tightening with emotion.
Poppy stared at him intently:
You want to try bringing that back?
Andrew gave a barelynoticeable nod.
Tom cracked a warm grin:
Well, now I get why youve been pining for years!
A lightness rose in Andrews chest.
Alright, Tom said, rubbing his palms, lets remember how it used to be. You once talked about a cake with cream
Without asking, Poppy rose and opened the fridge. There was no sponge cake, no frosting, but she pulled out a pack of plain biscuits and a jar of jam. Andrew couldnt help but smile: the gesture was absurd and utterly human. On the table soon appeared a plate of biscuits, a mug of jam, and a small bowl of condensed milk. Tom playfully rested his hands under his chin:
Quick cake! Got candles?
Poppy rummaged in a drawer for odds and ends and produced the stub of a paraffin candle. She snipped it in half a crooked, but real, wick. They stuck it into a makeshift mountain of biscuits. Andrew stared at the modest spread humble, unpretentious and felt a flicker of the anticipation hed missed.
Music? Tom asked.
Not the radio, something our parents used to play, Andrew replied.
Tom fiddled with his phone; Poppy hit play on an old laptop playlist. Voices from a bygone decade filled the room, familiar childhood tunes weaving with the rains roar outside. It was oddly funny to watch grownups staging a hometheatre for one of them, but the façade of the usual birthday cards vanished. Each did what they could: Poppy poured tea into thick porcelain cups; Tom clapped awkwardly to the beat; Andrew found himself smiling without the need for politeness.
The flat grew warmer. Fogged windows reflected the lamps glow and the street with its occasional passing car; outside the drizzle persisted. Yet Andrew now watched the rain differently: it was far away, while a private weather brewed inside.
Remember the game Crocodile? Poppy asked suddenly.
Of course! I always lost
Not because you were bad at acting! We just laughed too long.
They tried the game at the table. At first itAs the crooked candle flickered and the rain whispered against the window, they realized that the real celebration was simply being together, feeling the warm glow of friendship and love in that modest, imperfect moment.
