Hey, just thought Id ramble about my night, you know how it goes. I was trudging home down that bleak Manchester lane, the kind where the puddles sit halfcovered in brown leaves and catch the little pool of yellow from the street lamps. Its late autumn, proper damp and chilly, wind cutting right through you, and the houses look like distant silhouettes. Im moving a touch quicker, as if trying to outrun something thats been hanging over me since the morning. Tomorrows my birthday the date I always try not to think about.
Inside my chest theres this familiar, heavy knot. Not the excited kind, more like a clotted mess you can feel tightening each year. Every birthday feels the same now: the perfunctory messages, the quick calls from colleagues, the obligatory smiles. It all feels like a strange play where Im forced to be the celebrant even though I dont feel that way at all.
When I was a kid, Id leap out of bed early on the day, heart thudding, waiting for the magic of a homemade sponge cake with icing, the crinkle of the wrapping, Mums warm voice and the noisy chatter around the kitchen table. The wishes back then were genuine, full of laughter and the scramble for the last slice. Those memories now peek through now and then, leaving a soft ache behind.
I fumbled the flat door open and a cold gust slapped my face. The hallway was the usual chaos: a dripping umbrella propped against the wall, jackets hanging all over the place. I kicked off my shoes, paused at the mirror, and saw the tiredness of the past weeks reflected back, plus a faint sadness for the lost feeling of a proper celebration.
Are you home? Sarah called from the kitchen before I could answer.
Yeah I managed.
Weve gotten used to these clipped evening exchanges each of us doing our own thing, only really meeting over dinner or a cup of tea before bed. Our family runs on routine, safe but a bit dull.
I slipped into my homeclothes and shuffled into the kitchen where fresh bread was still warm on the counter. Sarah was chopping veg for a salad.
Any big guests tomorrow? I asked, flat as a pancake.
As always, you dont like noisy crowds maybe well just have the three of us? Invite your mate Tom, she said.
I gave a silent nod, poured myself a cup of tea, and let my thoughts swirl. I understood her logic why bother with a big party just for the sake of it? Yet something inside bristled at the idea of skimping on feelings.
The night droned on; I flicked through the news on my phone, trying to dodge the looming birthday thoughts. Still, the same question kept popping up: why has a celebration become a formality? Where did the joy go?
Morning arrived with a barrage of workchat notifications. Colleagues sent the usual birthday stickers and GIFs Happy Birthday! A few sent slightly warmer messages, but they all felt almost identical. I typed back the reflexive Thanks! or dropped an emoji, and the hollow feeling only grew. I caught myself wanting to put the phone away and forget my own birthday until next year.
Sarah cranked the kettle a notch louder to fill the quiet at the table.
Happy birthday Fancy ordering a pizza or some sushi tonight? I dont feel like standing over the stove all day, she suggested.
Whatever you like, I muttered, a hint of irritation slipping through, then instantly regretted it. I didnt bother to explain; the frustration just boiled inside me, part disappointment in myself, part annoyance at the world.
Around noon Tom rang.
Hey mate! Happy birthday! See you this evening? he said.
Yeah swing by after work, I replied.
Great! Ill bring something for tea.
The call ended as quickly as it began, leaving me oddly drained as if those brief bits of contact were just obligations, not genuine interactions.
The whole day felt like a halfsleep. The flat smelled of coffee mixed with the damp from the hallways wet coats, and it kept drizzling outside. I tried to work from home, but my mind kept drifting back to childhood, when any birthday felt like the event of the year. Now it just slips into the grind like any other notch on the calendar.
By evening my mood was heavy, and I realised I couldnt keep swallowing that emptiness just to keep everyone else comfortable. I didnt want to fake anything for Sarah or Tom, even if it felt awkward or foolish to speak my mind out loud.
When we all gathered around the kitchen table under the soft glow of the lamp, the rain hammered the windows louder than usual, as if underscoring the little world we were stuck in on this November night.
I sat there, tea cooling in my mug, words stuck in my throat. I glanced at Sarah first she gave me a weary smile across the table then at Tom, who was glued to his phone, nodding faintly to some music from the next room.
And then it all boiled down to this:
Listen Ive got something to say, I started.
Sarah set her spoon down, Tom lifted his head.
I always thought it was stupid to throw parties just for the sake of ticking a box but today I realised something else.
The room fell silent, the rain sounding louder than ever.
I miss a real celebration that childhood feeling when you wait the whole year for this day and everything seems possible.
I swallowed, my throat tightening.
Sarah looked at me, eyes soft.
You want to try and bring that back?
I gave a barely perceptible nod.
Tom cracked a warm grin.
Now I get it thats what youve been missing all these years!
A lightness settled in my chest.
Well then, Tom said, rubbing his hands together, lets reminisce. You used to talk about that cake with the frosting
Without asking, Sarah hopped to the fridge. There was no cake, no frosting, just a pack of plain biscuits and a jar of jam. I couldnt help but smile it was a ridiculous, very human gesture. In a flash, the table was set with biscuits, a mug of jam, and a small bowl of condensed milk. Tom pretended to fashion a makeshift cake, palms resting under his chin.
Quick cake! Got any candles? he asked, halfserious.
Sarah rummaged through a junk drawer and pulled out the stub of a paraffin candle, trimmed it down. It was crooked but real. We stuck it on a little mountain of biscuits. I looked at that humble spread and felt a flicker of that oldschool anticipation.
Music? Tom asked.
Not the radio, something Mum and Dad used to play, I replied.
Tom fiddled with his phone while Sarah queued up an old playlist on the laptop. Classic 80s tracks and some of the folk tunes we grew up with filled the room, mixing with the rains patter. It was funny watching grownups put on a little home theatre for one of us, but the façade of forced greetings fell away. Everyone just did what they were good at: Sarah poured tea into thickwalled mugs, Tom clapped awkwardly to the beat, and I found myself smiling without any pretense.
The flat grew cozier. The fogged windows reflected the lamp light and the street beyond, still drizzling. I started to see the rain differently it was somewhere far away, while inside we were making our own weather.
Remember the game Crocodile? Sarah suddenly asked.
Oh yeah! I always lost
Not because you were bad, just because we laughed too long, she said.
We tried it right there at the table. At first it felt odd an adult pretending to be a kangaroo in front of two other adults but after a minute the laughter turned genuine. Tom flailed his arms so wildly he almost knocked my mug over; Sarah giggled, a light, airy sound; I finally let go of the forced grin.
We swapped stories of childhood parties the kid who hid a slice of cake under a napkin for a second helping, the time Mums tea set shattered and nobody got angry. With each recollection the heavy cloud of formality lifted, replaced by a warm, snug feeling. Time stopped being an enemy.
Suddenly I felt that old childlike sense that anything could happen, even if just for one night. I looked at Sarah, grateful for her simple care, and at Tom, whose eyes showed pure, uncomplicated understanding.
The music cut out abruptly. Outside, a few car headlights skimmed the wet pavement. The flat felt like an island of light in a damp, grey autumn.
Sarah brought over another mug of tea.
Honestly, Ive still managed to make it a bit different but isnt the script what matters? she said.
I nodded, speechless.
I thought back to the dread Id felt this morning, as if a birthday had to disappoint or pass me by. Now it seemed a distant misunderstanding. No one expected perfect reactions, no one pushed for cheerfulness just to tick a box on a family calendar.
Tom dug out an old board game from the cupboard.
Now were really going back in time! he exclaimed.
We played until late, arguing over rules and laughing at each others silly moves. The rain outside turned into a soothing lullaby.
Later, the three of us sat quietly under the lamps soft glow. Crumbs littered the table, the jam jar was empty, the tea mugs were dry the evidence of our makeshift feast.
I realised I didnt have to prove anything to anyone, not even to myself. The celebration had returned not because someone bought the perfect cake, but because the people around me were ready to really listen.
I turned to Sarah.
Thanks, I said.
She smiled with her eyes.
Inside, there was calm no hype, no forced joy, just the right feeling in the right place with the right people. Outside, the wet city went on its way; inside it was warm and bright.
I got up, walked to the window. The puddles reflected the street lamps, the rain fell slow and lazy, as if tired of arguing with November. I thought about that childhood wonder it was always a simple thing done by the hands of those closest to you.
I fell asleep that night easy, without the urge to rush past my own birthday.
