I don't believe in celebrating my birthday or in having a party.

Host: The apartment was silent, save for the faint tick of a wall clock and the soft hiss of rain against the balcony glass. A half-eaten cake sat on the table, its candles long extinguished — their smoke curling upward like the remnants of laughter that never came.

Jack stood near the window, his back to the room, staring into the faint reflection of the city lights. Jeeny sat on the couch, her legs folded beneath her, a small wrapped gift untouched in her lap.

Host: The air between them carried that strange mixture of affection and distance that comes only when two people care deeply but speak carefully — as if words themselves might crack the fragile surface of understanding.

Jeeny: “You know, Shatrughan Sinha once said, ‘I don’t believe in celebrating my birthday or in having a party.’”

Jack: Half-smiling, without turning. “For once, I agree with someone.”

Jeeny: “You would.”

Jack: “Birthdays are absurd, Jeeny. They’re just reminders — not celebrations. You don’t get older; you just get closer to the end. Why celebrate that?”

Host: His tone was flat, but his eyes — reflected in the window — carried a weary flicker, the kind that comes from staring too long into one’s own solitude.

Jeeny: “You make it sound morbid. Birthdays aren’t about the numbers. They’re about gratitude — for being alive, for surviving.”

Jack: “Surviving isn’t the same as living. You don’t throw a party because the clock hasn’t stopped yet.”

Jeeny: “You throw a party to remind yourself that you still can.”

Host: She unwrapped the gift, her fingers trembling slightly — not from excitement, but from the quiet anxiety that comes with caring for someone who’s forgotten