Andrew trudged home along a dimly lit lane, the puddleshalfhidden beneath a carpet of brown leavesglinting under the occasional streetlamp. Late autumn in the outskirts of London was no time for wandering; a damp wind cut to the bone, and the houses loomed 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 birthdaya date he habitually tried to ignore.
Inside, the familiar tension tightened: not a joyful anticipation, but a heavy, viscous knot in his chest. Year after year the same script repeatedformal messages, brief calls from colleagues, obligatory smiles. It felt like a foreign play in which he was forced to act the celebrant, even though he no longer felt any part of it.
Once, everything had been different. As a child, Andrew would rise early, heart fluttering, waiting for the day. He believed in a tiny miraclethe scent of a homemade cake with frosting, the rustle of wrapping paper, his mothers warm voice, and the bustling chatter of guests around the table. Back then, congratulations were genuine, accompanied by laughter and the clatter of plates. Now those memories surfaced rarely, leaving a faint ache in their wake.
He turned the key and entered the flat; a rush of damp air slapped his face. The hallway was the usual mess: a wet umbrella propped against the wall, coats haphazardly draped on hooks. He slipped off his boots and paused before the mirror; his reflection showed the fatigue of recent weeks and something elsea lingering sorrow for a lost sense of celebration.
Did you get in? Sarahs voice called from the kitchen, cutting the silence before he could answer.
Yeah he muttered.
Their evenings had long been reduced to these clipped exchanges. Each went about his own business, meeting only over dinner or a latenight cup of tea. Their family ran on routinesteady, a little boring.
Andrew changed into his lounge wear and drifted into the kitchen, where fresh bread filled the air and Sarah was slicing vegetables for a salad.
Will there be many guests tomorrow? he asked, his tone flat.
As always, you dont like noisy crowds maybe well just have the three of us? Invite Tom, if you like, she replied.
He gave a silent nod and poured himself a mug of tea. Thoughts tangled: he understood Sarahs logicwhy stage a fête just for the sake of it? Yet something inside rebelled against this adult economy of emotions.
The evening stretched slowly; Andrew flicked through the news on his phone, trying to distract himself from the nagging thoughts of the next day. Still, the same question kept resurfacing: why had a birthday become a formality? Where had the joy gone?
Morning broke with a barrage of notifications from work chats; colleagues sent the usual birthday stickers and GIFsHappy Birthday! A handful of messages were marginally warmer, but all sounded almost identical, translucent in their sincerity.
He replied mechanically, Thanks! or dropped a smiley. The emptiness deepened; he caught himself wanting to slam the phone shut and hide his birthday until the following year.
Sarah cranked the kettle a little louder, hoping to drown the quiet 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 Andrews voice carried a thin edge of irritation, which he immediately regretted, but he said no more. Inside, a simmering discontent with himself and the world boiled over.
Around noon, Tom rang.
Hey! Happy birthday! See you later?
Yeah swing by after work.
Great! Ill bring something for tea.
The call ended as abruptly as it began; Andrew felt a strange fatigue from these brief contacts, as if they existed more for tradition than for him.
The day passed in a semidream. The flat smelled of coffee mixed with the musty humidity of wet coats by the door, while rain continued to drizzle outside. Andrew tried to work from home, but his mind kept drifting back to childhoodwhen 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 heavy. He finally admitted to himself that he no longer wanted to endure this hollow calm for the sake of everyone else. He didnt want to keep up pretenses with his wife or his friendno matter how awkward or funny it might feel to speak his truth aloud.
When they all gathered around the kitchen table under the soft glow of a lamp, rain hammered the windows with a louder rhythm, emphasizing the closedoff world inside their modest November night.
Andrew sat in silence; his tea grew cold, words failing to form. He glanced at Sarah firsther tired smile reached across the tablethen at Tom, who was glued to his phone, nodding faintly to music from the next room.
And then, breaking the tension, he spoke:
Listen I need to say something.
Sarah set down her spoon; Tom lifted his head.
Ive always thought it silly to celebrate just for the sake of a date but today I realized something else.
The room fell so quiet that even the rain seemed louder.
I miss a real celebration the feeling from childhood when you wait the whole year for this day and everything feels possible.
His throat tightened with emotion.
Sarah looked at him intently.
Do you want to try bringing that back?
Andrew gave a barely perceptible nod.
Tom chuckled warmly.
Now I get why youve been so restless all these years!
A lightness rose in Andrews chest.
Alright then, Tom said, rubbing his palms together, lets remember how it used to be. You once told me about a cake with frosting
Without a word, Sarah rose and opened the fridge. There was no sponge cake, no frosting, but she pulled out a packet of plain biscuits and a jar of strawberry jam. Andrew couldnt help but smile; the gesture was absurd, utterly human. In moments, the table was set with biscuits, a jug of jam, and a small bowl of condensed milk. Tom, joking, held his hands to his chin.
A quick cake! Got any candles?
Sarah rummaged through a drawer, emerging with the stub of a wax candle. She trimmed it down with a knifecrooked, but real. They stuck it atop a makeshift mountain of biscuits. Andrew stared at the humble arrangement, feeling a flicker of the anticipatory joy he once knew.
Music? Tom asked.
Not the radioplay what our parents used to listen to, Andrew requested.
Tom fumbled with his phone while Sarah queued an old playlist on the laptop. Voices from another decade filled the room, familiar childhood tunes mixing with the rains patter. It was oddly comic to watch grownups staging a private theatre for one of their own, but the façade of rehearsed congratulations vanished. Each did what they knew best: Sarah poured tea into thick mugs, Tom clapped offbeat along to the melody, and Andrew found himself smiling without any pretense.
The flat grew warmer. Fogged windows reflected the lamps light and the streets occasional cars; outside the drizzle persisted. Yet Andrew now watched the rain differentlyit was distant, while a private weather brewed inside.
Remember the game Crocodile? Sarah asked suddenly.
Of course! I always lost
Not because you were bad, just because we laughed too long.
They tried the game at the table. At first it felt awkwardan adult mimicking a kangaroo for two othersbut within minutes genuine laughter erupted. Tom gestured wildly, almost toppling his tea; Sarah giggled, bright and light; Andrew finally let go of his forced composure.
Stories from their own childhood birthdays spilled out: who hid cake slices under napkins for a second helping, the time they shattered Moms china and nobody scolded them. With each recollection, the oppressive cloud of formality dissolved into something cozy and warm. Time ceased to be an enemy.
Andrew sensed that familiar childhood sensation againeverything seemed possible, even if just for one night. He looked at Sarah with gratitude for her simple, wordless care; he caught Toms eye across the tableunderstanding without mockery.
The music stopped abruptly. Outside, scarce headlights skimmed the wet pavement. Their flat felt like an island of light amid the dreary autumn.
Sarah brought another pot of tea.
Ive still managed it a bit differently but the script isnt what matters, is it?
Andrew nodded, speechless.
He remembered the dread that had haunted him this morning, as if a birthday had to disappoint or pass him by. Now it seemed a distant misunderstanding. No one expected perfect reactions or thankyous; no one pushed him to feign joy for a calendar checkbox.
Tom dug out an old board game from the cupboard.
Now were really going back in time!
They played late into the night, arguing over rules and laughing at each others ridiculous moves. The rain outside turned into a lullaby.
Eventually the three of them sat in the soft lamplight, the table scattered with biscuit crumbs and an empty jamstained mugremnants of their impromptu feast.
Andrew realized he no longer needed to prove anything to anyone. The celebration had returned not because someone crafted the perfect plan or bought the perfect cake, but because the people beside him were ready to hear him, truly.
He turned to Sarah.
Thank you
She answered with a smile that lived only in her eyes.
Inside, peace settledno fireworks, no forced gaiety, just the right feel of an evening in the right place with the right people. Beyond the window, the soaked city lived its own life; within, there was warmth and light.
Andrew rose, walked to the window, and watched the streetlights reflect in the puddles. The rain fell slowly, as if exhausted from a days battle with November. He thought of the childhood wonderalways simple, always crafted by close hands.
That night he fell asleep easily, without the urge to rush past his own birthday.
