I can't make eye contact when people sing 'Happy Birthday' to me.

Host: The restaurant was dim, washed in the golden haze of flickering candles and the low murmur of conversations. A jazz pianist played softly near the corner, every note hovering in the air like a memory trying not to fade. It was late — the kind of late where laughter slows down, and the room feels heavy with stories.

At a small table by the window, Jack and Jeeny sat with an uneaten slice of cake between them. The single candle had burned halfway down, the wax pooling like time melting quietly. Outside, the city rain painted silver streaks across the glass.

Jeeny: “Dove Cameron once said, ‘I can’t make eye contact when people sing “Happy Birthday” to me.’”

Jack: (chuckling) “Finally — a celebrity quote I actually understand.”

Jeeny: “You relate to that?”

Jack: “Completely. Nothing’s more awkward than people singing at you while you just sit there pretending not to know what to do with your face.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “It’s more than awkwardness, Jack. It’s vulnerability. That little song exposes you — for a few seconds, you’re the center of the world, and there’s nowhere to hide.”

Jack: “Exactly. I hate it. Everyone staring, expecting you to smile, to perform happiness. I’d rather eat the candle.”

Jeeny: “That’s because you confuse attention with judgment.”

Jack: “Aren’t they the same thing?”

Jeeny: “No. Judgment looks down. Attention looks in.”

Host: The rain tapped gently on the window, rhythmic and patient. The piano slowed, drifting into a melody that felt like a memory of something they both missed but couldn’t name.

Jack: “You ever notice how weird birthdays are? They’re supposed to celebrate you, but they just remind everyone you’re aging — dying slower, but prettier.”

Jeeny: “You say that like it’s tragic.”

Jack: “It is. They sing like you’re eternal, but all you can think about is how many candles you’ve burned.”

Jeeny: “That’s the problem, Jack. You see the candle melting. I see the light.”

Jack: “Light doesn’t last.”

Jeeny: “Neither does anything worth having.”

Host: Jack looked away, watching the reflection of the candle flame in the window. The light shimmered over his features — half in shadow, half in gold — the portrait of someone learning to look at himself.

Jeeny: “You know, Dove’s quote isn’t really about birthdays.”

Jack: “Then what’s it about?”

Jeeny: “Intimacy. The discomfort of being seen. That small terror that says, ‘Don’t look too closely, you’ll find the real me.’”

Jack: “That’s every human’s nightmare — being seen too clearly.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And that’s why her confession feels so honest. It’s not about cake or songs. It’s about what happens when kindness makes us feel exposed.”

Jack: “Funny. We spend our lives craving love, then panic when someone gives it to us.”

Jeeny: “Because love isn’t the problem. Being witnessed is.”

Host: The waiter passed by, nodding politely. The candle flame trembled in the draft, but didn’t die. Jeeny leaned forward, her expression thoughtful, her voice softer now — that tone she used when she was dissecting truth with tenderness.

Jeeny: “When people sing to you, they’re not asking you to perform. They’re offering you a moment — saying, ‘We’re glad you exist.’ And you look away, because part of you doesn’t believe them.”

Jack: (quietly) “You think it’s disbelief?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Every person who can’t handle love has been starved of it too long. When it finally arrives, it feels unnatural — like warmth after frostbite.”

Jack: “So we look away to keep from thawing too fast.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The piano shifted, sliding into a slow blues rhythm. Outside, the rain deepened, turning the glass into a mirror — their faces reflected side by side, blurred but recognizable.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? That someone like her — famous, adored, photographed every day — can’t handle a birthday song. Makes you wonder how much of fame is just a sophisticated form of hiding.”

Jeeny: “All fame is hiding. You build an image so bright that no one notices the human standing in its shadow.”

Jack: “And we call that success.”

Jeeny: “No, we call it survival.”

Jack: “So even she feels that awkwardness — that moment where love feels like exposure. That’s… oddly comforting.”

Jeeny: “See? Even the adored crave invisibility sometimes.”

Jack: “And the invisible crave to be adored.”

Jeeny: “That’s the tragedy of being human — we fear the very thing we need most.”

Host: A long silence followed, filled only by the sound of rain and the steady hum of the world continuing without them. Jack tapped his fingers against the table, lost in thought.

Jack: “You think that’s why birthdays feel fake sometimes? Because they’re meant to celebrate our existence, but we’re not sure we’ve earned it?”

Jeeny: “Yes. We mistake celebration for approval. But they’re not the same.”

Jack: “And what are they singing for, then?”

Jeeny: “For the miracle that you’re still here.”

Jack: “Still here…” (he repeats it softly, like a secret) “That’s a heavy kind of miracle.”

Jeeny: “All the best ones are.”

Host: The flame wavered again. Jack reached out, shielding it with his palm. The tiny light flickered against his skin, making it glow for a moment — fragile, beautiful.

Jeeny watched him, her voice now a whisper, filled with the quiet reverence that only truth deserves.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why we can’t make eye contact when people sing — because deep down, we know it’s not about the song. It’s about love disguised as noise. And love, even when gentle, demands courage.”

Jack: “And courage isn’t my strong suit.”

Jeeny: “It never is until you practice looking back.”

Jack: “Looking back?”

Jeeny: “Into the eyes that are celebrating you — and believing they mean it.”

Host: The rain began to lighten, and the pianist’s song faded into silence. The room emptied, leaving only them and the candle, still burning.

Jack looked up, finally meeting Jeeny’s gaze. His eyes were uncertain, but steady — like a man testing the warmth of sunlight after a long winter.

Jack: “Alright then. Sing it.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “Sing what?”

Jack: “You know what.”

Jeeny: (laughs gently) “I can’t sing, Jack.”

Jack: “Then hum it. Just… don’t look away.”

Host: Jeeny began to hum, low and shaky at first, but tender — the familiar melody trembling in the small room. Jack kept his eyes on her, the faintest smile breaking across his face as something quiet and brave unfurled between them.

When she finished, the silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full — of grace, of laughter unsaid, of something sacred rediscovered.

Jeeny blew out the candle.
A curl of smoke rose, slow and graceful, vanishing into the night.

Host (softly):
“Dove Cameron’s words weren’t about birthdays. They were about the strange courage it takes to be loved — to sit still while others celebrate your being. To let their gaze meet yours and not flinch.”

Outside, the rain had stopped.
The city gleamed under fresh light.
And for the first time, Jack didn’t look away.