The night belonged to him.
Andrew trudged home down a dim, leafstrewn lane outside a cramped terraced house in the outskirts of Manchester. Puddles, half hidden beneath a carpet of yellowed oak leaves, caught the weak glow of the occasional streetlamp. Late autumn in the north of England was never a time for wandering: a damp, cutting wind seemed to reach right into the marrow, and the houses along the road looked cold and indifferent. He quickened his steps as if trying to outrun something invisible that had hovered over him since dawn. Tomorrow marked his birthdaya date he habitually tried to ignore.
Inside, a familiar pressure built in his chest, not the eager anticipation of a celebration but a dense, heavy knot that refused to loosen. Every year the same routine unfolded: formal birthday cards, a few brief calls from colleagues, perfunctory smiles. It all felt like a rehearsed play in which he was forced to act the role of the honoured guest, though he no longer felt any part of it.
Once, things had been different. As a child, Andrew would rise early on the day, heart thudding with excitement, convinced that some small miracle waiteda scent of homemade sponge cake with buttercream, the rustle of wrapping paper, his mothers warm voice, the chatter of noisy relatives around the table. Back then, the congratulations were genuine, full of laughter and bustling hands. Now those memories surfaced rarely, each one leaving a faint ache of longing.
He fumbled the flatdoor open; a rush of cold, wet air slapped his face. The hallway was a familiar mess: a dripping umbrella propped against the wall, jackets haphazardly draped over the few existing hooks. Andrew slipped off his shoes and paused before the mirror; his reflection showed a face tired from weeks of grind and, beneath it, an elusive sadness for a vanished sense of festivity.
Are you home? Eleanors voice drifted from the kitchen, cutting the silence before he could answer.
Yeah he muttered.
They had grown accustomed to these clipped evening exchanges: each occupied with their own tasks, meeting only over dinner or a cup of tea before bed. Their family ran on routinesteady, a little boring, but reliable.
Changing into his soft housecoat, Andrew padded into the kitchen where the air smelled faintly of freshly baked bread. Eleanor was chopping vegetables for a salad.
Will there be many guests tomorrow? he asked, voice flat.
As always, you dont like noisy gatherings maybe well just have the three of us? Invite your mate Simon, she replied.
Andrew gave a silent nod and filled his mug with tea. His thoughts tangled: he understood Eleanors logicwhy throw a lavish party just for the sake of a date? Yet something inside bristled at the adultlevel scrimping on feelings.
The evening stretched slowly. He flicked through news on his phone, trying to distract himself from the relentless thoughts about the coming day. The question kept returning: why had the birthday become a formality? Why had the joy evaporated?
The next morning his phone erupted with a string of workchat notifications; colleagues sent the usual birthday stickers and GIFsHappy Birthday! A handful of messages were marginally warmer, but each word mirrored the others until they were almost transparent.
He typed a perfunctory Thanks! or dropped a smiley. The emptiness only grew: Andrew found himself wanting to shove the phone away and forget his own birthday until the next year.
Eleanor turned up the kettle a notch louder, hoping the clatter would mask the thrum of silence at the kitchen table.
Happy birthday Look, how about we order some fish and chips or a curry tonight? I dont feel like standing at the stove all day, she suggested.
Whatever you like, Andrew replied, irritation tinging his voice. He immediately regretted the edge but said nothing more, the sting of his own helpless frustration simmering beneath the surface.
Around midday Simon called.
Hey, mate! Happy birthday! You free this evening?
Yeah swing by after work, Andrew said.
Great! Ill bring something for tea.
The call ended as abruptly as it began, leaving Andrew with a strange fatigue from those brief exchangesas if they existed not for him, but because it was expected.
The day unfolded in a haze. The flat smelled of coffee mixed with the dampness from the hallways wet coats; rain still drummed softly against the windows. Andrew tried to work from home, but his mind kept drifting back to childhood, when any birthday felt like the event of the year. Now it dissolved into the monotony of an ordinary calendar tick.
By evening his mood had soured completely. He finally realized he could no longer endure the hollow peace that kept everyone else comfortable. He didnt want to keep up appearances for Eleanor or Simonno matter how awkward or absurd it might feel to speak his truth aloud.
When they all gathered around the modest kitchen table, the rain hammered the windows with a louder, almost accusatory rhythm, underscoring the cramped world they inhabited in Novembers chill.
Andrew sat mute, his tea cooling in the mug before him, words jammed in his throat. He glanced first at Eleanorshe offered a tired smile across the tablethen at Simon, who was halfabsorbed in his phone, nodding faintly to a tune spilling from the next room.
And then, breaking the fragile silence, he spoke.
Listen I have something to say.
Eleanor set down her spoon; Simon lifted his head from the screen.
It always seemed silly to celebrate just for the sake of a date but today Ive realized something else.
The room fell suddenly quiet, the rains patter now louder than ever.
I miss a real celebration that childhood feeling when you wait the whole year for this day and everything feels possible.
His voice caught, throat tight with emotion.
Eleanor looked at him intently.
Do you want to try to bring that back?
Andrew gave a barely perceptible nod.
Simon cracked a warm smile.
Well, now I get why youve been so missing it all these years!
A lightness rose in Andrews chest.
Alright then, Simon said, rubbing his hands together, lets remember how it used to be. You once told me about a cake with cream
Without a word, Eleanor rose and opened the fridge. There was no sponge cake, no buttercream, only a pack of plain biscuits and a jar of raspberry jam. Andrew couldnt help but grin at the absurd, heartfelt gesture. In moments the table was laid out with biscuits, a jug of jam, and a small bowl of condensed milk. Simon, playing the role of a chef, held his hands to his chin and declared,
Quick cake! Got any candles?
Eleanor rummaged through a drawer of odds and ends, pulling out the stub of a paraffin candle. She trimmed it with a knifecrooked, but realand stuck it atop a tiny mound of biscuits. Andrew stared at the makeshift cakehumble, unpretentiousand felt a flicker of the anticipation hed once known.
Music? Simon asked.
Not the radio. Something we used to hear when we were kids, Andrew replied.
Simon fumbled with his phone while Eleanor queued up an old playlist on the laptop. Voices from a bygone era filled the room, familiar childhood songs weaving with the rains chorus outside. It was comical to watch grownups stage a homemade theatre for one of their own, but the charade stripped away the false polish of typical birthday wishes. Each person did what they knew best: Eleanor poured tea into sturdy mugs, Simon clapped offbeat to the music, Andrew found himself smiling for reasons beyond politeness.
The flat grew warmer. Fogged windows reflected the lamps glow and the street beyond, where cars passed like glimmering insects through the mist. Andrew now watched the rain differentlyit seemed distant, while his own weather gathered inside.
Remember the game Crocodile? Eleanor asked suddenly.
Of course! I always lost
It wasnt because I was bad at actingjust because we laughed too long.
They tried the game at the table. At first it felt ridiculousa grown man mimicking a kangaroo for two other adultsbut within a minute genuine laughter erupted. Simon flailed his arms so wildly he almost tipped his mug, Eleanor giggled with a bright, airy sound, and Andrew finally let go of his forced composure.
They swapped stories of childhood birthdays: who hid a slice of cake under a napkin for a second helping, the time a mothers china set shattered and no one scolded them. Each recollection dissolved the heavy cloud of formality, replacing it with a cosy, warm glow. Time stopped feeling like an enemy.
Andrew sensed that old childhood sensation returnthe belief that anything was possible, at least for one night. He looked at Eleanor with gratitude for her simple, wordless care; he met Simons eyes across the table and found understanding without judgment.
The music ended abruptly. Outside, the occasional headlights skimmed the slick pavement. The flat felt like an island of light amid the bleak autumn.
Eleanor refilled the tea.
I may have done it a bit differently but isnt the script what matters? she asked.
Andrew nodded wordlessly.
He recalled the dread that had haunted him this morning, as if every birthday had to disappoint or pass him by. Now it seemed a distant misunderstanding. No one expected a perfect reaction or a grand gesture; no one pressured him into festivity just to tick a box on the family calendar.
Simon dug out an old board game from a cupboard.
Now were really going back in time!
They played until late, arguing over rules and laughing at each others ridiculous moves. Beyond the window, the rain tapped a lullaby.
Later, the three sat in the soft lamplight, the table littered with biscuit crumbs and an empty jam jugremnants of their humble feast.
Andrew realised he no longer needed to prove anything to anyone. The celebration had returned not because someone bought the perfect cake, but because the people around him were ready to hear him, truly.
He turned to Eleanor.
Thanks
She answered with a smile that lived only in her eyes.
Inside, a calm settledno fireworks, no forced joy, just the right feeling in the right place, among the right people. Outside, the wet city went on its business; inside, warmth and light lingered.
Andrew rose, walked to the window, and watched puddles mirror the streetlamps. The rain fell slowly, lazily, as if exhausted from debating November all day. He thought of the childhood miraclea simple act of love from those closest to him.
That night he fell asleep easily, no longer racing to forget his own birthday.
