I have this PTSD from a birthday party where no one showed up.

Host: The diner was nearly empty, save for the soft hum of a neon sign flickering in the window — blue light bleeding over the scratched chrome counter. The rain outside fell hard and steady, each drop carrying the echo of a memory someone wished they could forget.

Jack sat in the corner booth, his grey eyes fixed on the coffee cooling before him, fingers drumming absently against the tabletop. The clock above the jukebox ticked too loudly — the kind of tick that reminded you how long you’d been waiting for something that wasn’t coming.

Across from him, Jeeny sat quietly, stirring her tea though she hadn’t added sugar. Her eyes, soft and watchful, stayed on him — as though she could sense the unspoken storm brewing behind his calm.

From the small TV behind the counter, an interview played. The actress on screen, Emily Hampshire, was laughing faintly, but her words weren’t light.

"I have this PTSD from a birthday party where no one showed up."

The laughter from the screen was brittle — a laugh that disguised hurt like a magician’s trick.

Jack: (after a pause) “You ever have one of those moments? The kind that carves itself into you so deep, you can still feel the scar decades later?”

Jeeny: (softly) “Yes.”

Host: Her voice was quiet, but it didn’t hesitate. It was the kind of quiet that knew the sound of old pain.

Jack: “That quote… it’s ridiculous, right? PTSD from a birthday party. But I get it.”

Jeeny: “Why ridiculous?”

Jack: “Because it’s just a party. Balloons. Cake. A bunch of kids who didn’t show up. It’s not war.”

Jeeny: “Pain doesn’t need permission to hurt, Jack.”

Host: The rain outside grew heavier, pressing against the windows like a reminder. Jack’s reflection wavered in the glass, two faces — one real, one ghostly — flickering in and out of alignment.

Jack: “I was eight. My mom worked double shifts. She made this big deal about inviting the whole class. We spent two days making cupcakes. I sat on the porch for hours… waiting.” (he swallows) “No one came.”

Jeeny: “And that’s the first time you learned the world could forget you.”

Jack: “Yeah.” (he exhales, bitterly) “Funny how you can grow up and still be that kid on the porch.”

Host: The clock ticked again — louder this time. The neon buzzed. Jeeny didn’t speak; she just looked at him with those eyes that could strip every lie down to bone.

Jeeny: “You joke about it now, don’t you? Tell it like a funny story.”

Jack: “Of course. Makes people laugh. Makes them comfortable.”

Jeeny: “But it still hurts.”

Jack: “Every damn time.”

Host: The candlelight from the next table flickered against his face, showing the tremor in his jaw — the one he tried to hide behind irony.

Jeeny: “Emily Hampshire said she had PTSD from that moment. Not because of the party — but because of what it taught her. That she didn’t matter enough to be remembered. That’s not silly, Jack. That’s trauma wearing a paper hat.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “You’ve got a way with words.”

Jeeny: “You’ve got a way with wounds.”

Host: Her voice was gentle, but the truth inside it landed like thunder. Jack’s hand clenched around his cup; his coffee rippled.

Jack: “You think people ever really move past things like that?”

Jeeny: “No. I think they learn to carry them differently.”

Jack: “And what? Pretend it doesn’t hurt?”

Jeeny: “No. Accept that it does — and forgive the part of themselves that still wants someone to show up.”

Host: The rain slowed, as though the sky itself were listening. Jack leaned back, his eyes distant — not looking at her but through her, back into the blur of memory.

Jack: “You ever notice how loneliness sticks harder than any other pain? You break a bone — it heals. But that feeling of being forgotten… it never really fades.”

Jeeny: “Because loneliness doesn’t break — it seeps.”

Jack: “You sound like a poet.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like a child still waiting for the doorbell.”

Host: He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The silence stretched, heavy but human. Then he gave a small laugh — rough, cracked, the kind that hides behind irony like armor.

Jack: “You ever throw a party for yourself, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “Every year.”

Jack: “And people come?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes no one does. But I still light the candle.”

Jack: “Why?”

Jeeny: “Because I deserve to be celebrated — even if I’m the only one who knows it.”

Host: The words landed like light in the dark. Jack’s eyes softened, and for the first time that night, he didn’t look defeated — just human.

Jack: “That’s… something I never learned to do.”

Jeeny: “Then start now.”

Jack: “You think that’s all it takes? Just decide to believe you’re worth it?”

Jeeny: “It’s not about believing, Jack. It’s about remembering. You were always worth it. You just forgot when no one showed up.”

Host: The waitress passed by, refilling their cups. The sound of coffee pouring filled the space like a ritual. Jack watched the dark liquid rise and said quietly:

Jack: “You know, I’ve spent most of my life chasing things — success, recognition, people — trying to prove I matter. But maybe I was just trying to fill that porch.”

Jeeny: “And did you?”

Jack: (after a long pause) “No. I just built bigger porches.”

Host: Jeeny’s smile was soft, bittersweet. She reached across the table, resting her hand over his — not as comfort, but as connection.

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time to invite yourself in.”

Host: The rain had stopped completely now. A faint dawn began to creep through the diner windows, washing the world in pale gold. Jack looked outside, watching as the sky shifted from darkness to light — hesitant, then certain.

Jack: “You ever think the reason no one came isn’t because they didn’t care — but because they didn’t know how much it mattered?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But healing doesn’t depend on their reasons. It depends on your choice to stop waiting.”

Host: He nodded, slowly, like someone agreeing to meet himself halfway.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… maybe next year, I’ll throw another party.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “And if no one comes?”

Jack: “Then I’ll eat the cake myself.”

Jeeny: “Good. Just don’t forget to make a wish.”

Host: The camera would linger there — on their hands resting between the cups, the faint light brushing over their faces. The TV in the background replayed the interview, Emily Hampshire’s voice echoing faintly through the diner — that laugh again, nervous, real, human.

Host: And as the scene faded, so did the sorrow — not gone, but gentled — the way pain becomes softer when it’s finally named.

Host: Because sometimes, the deepest wounds come not from being hurt — but from being unseen. And the healing begins, as Emily Hampshire knew, the moment you decide to show up for yourself.