Evening for myself
Andrew Smith walks home down a dim lane, where puddles halfcovered by fallen leaves catch the weak glow of the occasional streetlamp. Late autumn in the English countryside isnt meant for strolls: a damp wind bites to the bone, and the houses loom distant and indifferent. He quickens his pace, as if trying to outrun an invisible pressure that has settled on him since sunrise. Tomorrow is his birthdaya date he habitually tries to ignore.
Inside his mind a familiar tension builds: not a joyful anticipation, but a dense, heavy knot in his chest. Every year the same routine repeatsformal messages, brief calls from colleagues, polite smiles. It feels like a foreign play in which he has to act as the celebrant, even though he no longer feels that way.
Once, things were different. As a child he would rise early, heart thudding with excitement for the day, believing in a tiny miraclethe scent of a homemade cake with icing, the rustle of wrapping paper, his mothers warm voice, and the chatter of guests around the table. Back then people truly celebrated, laughing sincerely and bustling about the kitchen. Now those memories surface only rarely, always leaving a faint ache.
He opens the flats front door; the cold air slaps his face harder. The hallway greets him with the usual mess: a dripping umbrella by the wall, jackets haphazardly hung on hooks. He slips off his shoes and pauses before the mirror; his reflection shows weeks of fatigue and something elsea lingering melancholy for a lost sense of festivity.
Are you home? Sarah, his wife, peeks out of the kitchen, waiting for an answer.
Yeah
They have long grown used to these clipped evening exchanges: each does his own thing, meeting only at dinner or over a mug of tea before bed. Their family runs on routinesteady and a little dull.
Andrew changes into his houseclothes and heads to the kitchen, where fresh bread smells sweet; Sarah is chopping vegetables for a salad.
Will there be many guests tomorrow? he asks, almost flat.
As always, you dont like noisy crowds Maybe we just have the three of us? Invite your mate Dave.
Andrew nods silently and pours himself a cup of tea. Thoughts tangle: he understands Sarahs logicwhy throw a big party just for the sake of it? Yet something inside rebels against this adult frugality of feeling.
The evening drags slowly; Andrew scrolls through news on his phone, trying to distract himself from the nagging thoughts about the next day. He keeps returning to the question: why has a celebration become a formality? Why has joy vanished?
In the morning his phone blares with a cascade of workchat notifications; colleagues send the usual birthday memes and stickers. A handful of people type slightly warmer messages, but all the words blur together, transparent and hollow.
He replies automatically with a Thanks! or a smiley. The emptiness deepens: Andrew catches himself wanting to push the phone away and pretend his birthday doesnt exist until next year.
Sarah turns up the kettle a notch louder, trying to drown the silence at the table.
Happy birthday Listen, maybe we order pizza or sushi tonight? I dont feel like standing at the stove all day.
Whatever you like
A flicker of irritation passes through Andrews voice; he instantly regrets it but says nothing. Inside, a simmering dissatisfaction with himself and the world bubbles.
Around midday Dave calls.
Hey! Happy birthday! See you later?
Yeah Drop by after work.
Great! Ill bring something for tea.
The conversation ends as quickly as it began, leaving Andrew with a strange fatigue from these brief contactsas if they happen not for him, but because thats how its done.
The whole day passes in a halfsleep. The flat smells of coffee mixed with the dampness from wet coats in the hallway; rain still drizzles outside. Andrew tries to work from home, but his mind keeps drifting back to childhood, when any holiday felt like the years highlight. Now it dissolves into the weekday grind, another tick on the calendar.
By evening his mood turns heavy; he finally admits to himself that he cant bear this emptiness any longer, not for the sake of keeping the peace. He doesnt want to pretend in front of Sarah or Davehed rather risk awkwardness or laughter by speaking his feelings out loud.
When they gather around the kitchen table under the soft glow of the bedside lamp, rain drums against the window sill louder than usual, underscoring the closedoff world of their small November evening.
Andrew sits in silence; his tea cools as words fail to form. He looks first at Sarahshe offers a tired smile across the tablethen at Dave, who is halffocused on his phone, nodding faintly to music from the next room.
And then everything reaches a breaking point.
Listen I need to say something, he begins.
Sarah puts down her spoon; Dave lifts his head from the screen.
Ive always thought it ridiculous to throw parties just for the sake of checking a box but today I realize something else.
The room goes quiet so sharply that even the rain seems louder.
I miss a real celebration the childhood feeling of waiting all year for a day when everything feels possible.
His throat tightens with emotion.
Sarah looks at him intently.
You want to try to bring that back?
Andrew nods, barely noticeable.
Dave chuckles warmly.
Now I get why youve been drifting all these years!
A lightness spreads through Andrews chest.
Well then, Dave says, rubbing his palms, lets recall how it used to be. You once told me about that cake with frosting
Without asking, Sarah heads to the fridge. Theres no sponge cake or icing, but she pulls out a packet of plain biscuits and a jar of jam. Andrew cant help smiling; the gesture is absurd yet utterly human. On the table appear the biscuits, a bowl of jam, and a pot of condensed milk. Dave playfully holds his hands to his chin.
A quick cake! Got any candles?
Sarah rummages in a drawer and finds the stub of a paraffin candle, trims it in half. Its crooked but real. They stick it onto a makeshift mountain of biscuits. Andrew watches the humble arrangement and feels a flicker of the old anticipatory joy.
Music? Dave asks.
Not the radioplay what our parents used to listen to, Andrew replies.
Dave fiddles with his phone; Sarah queues an old playlist on the laptop. Classic 80s tunes drift in, blending with the rains patter. Its funny to watch grownups stage a little home theatre for one of them, but the pretence of standard birthday greetings evaporates. Everyone does what they can: Sarah pours tea into sturdy mugs, Dave claps awkwardly to the beat, and Andrew finds himself smiling without it being a courtesy.
The flat feels warmer. Fogged windows reflect lamp light and the street outside, where cars pass infrequently, still drizzling. Andrew now watches the rain differentlyits distant, while a private weather gathers inside.
Remember the game Charades? Sarah asks suddenly.
How could I forget! I always lost
Not because you were badjust because we laughed too long.
They try a round at the table. At first its goofyan adult mimicking a kangaroo in front of two other adultsbut after a minute genuine laughter erupts. Dave flails his arms, nearly toppling his tea; Sarah giggles lightly; Andrew finally lets his face loosen.
They reminisce about childhood parties: the kid who hid a slice of cake under a napkin for a second helping; the time they broke Mums china and no one scolded them. Each memory pushes the atmosphere away from a heavy cloud of formality toward something cosy and warm. Time stops being an enemy.
Andrew suddenly feels that childhood sense againeverything seems possible, even if just for one night. He looks at Sarah with gratitude for her simple care, and at Dave across the table, where understanding passes without mockery.
The music stops abruptly. Outside, a few headlights skim the wet road. The flat feels like an island of light amid the bleak autumn.
Sarah brings another pot of tea.
Ive still done it a bit differently but isnt the script what matters?
Andrew nods silently.
He recalls his morning dreadfearing the day would disappoint or slip by unnoticed. Now it feels like a distant misunderstanding. Nobody expects perfect reactions or thankyous; no one pushes him to celebrate merely to tick a calendar box.
Dave pulls an old board game from the cupboard.
Now were really going back in time!
They play until late, arguing over rules and laughing at each others silly moves. Outside, the rain drums a lullaby.
Later the three sit quietly under the lamps soft glow. Crumbs of biscuits and an empty jam mug remain on the tableremnants of their makeshift feast.
Andrew realises he no longer needs to prove anything to himself or anyone else. The celebration returns not because someone devised a perfect plan or bought an ideal cake, but because the people around him are ready to hear him truly.
He looks at Sarah.
Thank you
She smiles with her eyes.
Inside theres calmno euphoria, no performative joyjust the feeling of being exactly where he belongs, with the right people, at the right moment. Outside, the wet city carries on its own life; inside its warm and bright.
Andrew stands, walks to the window. Puddles mirror streetlights; rain falls slowly, as if tired of arguing with November. He thinks of the childhood miraclea simple thing made by close hands.
That night he drifts off easily, without the urge to rush past his own birthday.
