I like to keep my birthday very relaxed.

Host: The afternoon light was soft and lazy, sliding through the wide windows of a small beach café where the sea breeze carried a faint scent of salt and vanilla. Outside, waves whispered against the shore, their rhythm slow and forgiving. Inside, a few tables stood half-empty — the kind of quiet that comes not from loneliness, but from peace.

At one of them sat Jack, in a wrinkled white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a faint trace of sand on his boots. He was staring out toward the ocean, an untouched slice of cake before him, a single candle flickering though it wasn’t lit.

Across from him, Jeeny stirred her coffee, her eyes following the lazy trail of steam. The light played gently over her hair, turning each strand into a ribbon of bronze.

It was his birthday — though no one here would know it.

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “So this is how you celebrate? A piece of cake, no candles, no people?”

Jack: “That’s the point. No noise, no expectations. Just air, light, and coffee that doesn’t talk back.”

Host: The sound of distant laughter drifted in from outside — children running by, leaving small footprints in the sand that would vanish with the tide.

Jeeny: “You sound like an old man hiding from the world.”

Jack: (chuckling) “Maybe I am. I like what Barun Sobti said once — ‘I like to keep my birthday very relaxed.’ You know why? Because celebrations make people pretend. Everyone acts like the day means something more than it does.”

Jeeny: “You think there’s no meaning in being born? Or just no meaning in being congratulated for it?”

Host: A seagull glided by the window, its shadow cutting across their table like a passing thought.

Jack: “Birthdays are strange. You celebrate getting closer to the end. You blow out candles and pretend the flame means hope, but really it’s just counting down.”

Jeeny: “That’s one way to look at it. But maybe it’s not about counting. Maybe it’s about pausing. You’ve lived another year — you survived yourself. That deserves something.”

Jack: “Survival’s not a party trick.”

Jeeny: “No, but it’s a story.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice was gentle, but her eyes — deep brown, calm yet piercing — carried that soft defiance she was known for. She lifted her cup, took a slow sip, then leaned forward.

Jeeny: “You hide behind logic like it’s armor, Jack. You pretend indifference is wisdom. But tell me honestly — when was the last time you actually felt grateful to still be here?”

Jack: (shrugs) “Gratitude’s just a fancy way of saying you’re lucky not to be worse off.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s the only honest form of celebration left.”

Host: The light shifted as a cloud passed. For a moment, the café felt dimmer — not darker, but muted, like a song turned low.

Jack: “You know what birthdays do? They make people think they’re entitled to happiness. That they’ve earned a day of affection. But affection isn’t earned — it’s borrowed. Everyone’s kind to you because they’re supposed to be.”

Jeeny: “Or because they remember you matter.”

Jack: “Mattering’s overrated.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Mattering is rare.”

Host: A faint smile touched Jeeny’s lips, though her voice had grown quieter. The waves outside rose, broke, and retreated again — the endless conversation of water and shore.

Jeeny: “You know, when I was little, my father never celebrated his birthday either. He’d just sit by the window with his tea, watching rain. I asked him once why he didn’t like parties, and he said, ‘Because I want to feel the day, not prove it to others.’”

Jack: “Sounds like someone I’d get along with.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But I learned later — it wasn’t about avoiding people. It was about finding peace in presence. That’s what I think you’re doing now, even if you won’t admit it.”

Host: Jack looked out toward the sea, his jaw relaxing, a trace of reflection passing through his eyes. The light outside began to shimmer again as the cloud drifted away.

Jack: “Maybe. Maybe I just like the quiet. People make noise — not sound, noise. They say ‘happy birthday’ like an echo of obligation.”

Jeeny: “And yet here I am saying it.”

Jack: (glancing at her) “Yeah. And somehow it sounds different from you.”

Host: Jeeny laughed softly, her fingers brushing the rim of her cup. The moment felt suspended — like the tide holding its breath.

Jeeny: “You know what I think? Relaxed birthdays are the truest ones. Not the ones with balloons or music, but the ones where you can sit with yourself and not feel like a stranger.”

Jack: “You make solitude sound romantic.”

Jeeny: “It is — if you’re brave enough to stay in it without bitterness.”

Jack: “That’s a dangerous kind of bravery.”

Jeeny: “The only kind worth having.”

Host: The waiter passed by, leaving the check without a word. The café had begun to empty; the sun dipped lower, scattering gold across the waves. Jack’s untouched cake still sat between them, its frosting beginning to melt slightly in the warmth.

Jeeny: “You’re not going to eat that?”

Jack: “It feels strange eating cake alone.”

Jeeny: “You’re not alone.”

Jack: (softly) “Not this year.”

Host: There was a pause — long, full, tender. The kind that doesn’t need filling. Jack finally reached for the small candle, struck a match, and lit it. The flame flickered unsteadily, dancing in the soft ocean breeze drifting through the open window.

Jeeny: “Make a wish.”

Jack: “I don’t do wishes.”

Jeeny: “Then make a promise.”

Host: The flame wavered, catching a glint in Jack’s eyes. He leaned closer, his voice low.

Jack: “Alright. I promise to let the day exist — without guilt, without cynicism. Just… let it be.”

Jeeny: “Good. That’s the best kind of birthday gift you can give yourself.”

Host: The flame quivered once, then steadied, reflected in both their eyes — a fragile, golden echo of something simple and human.

Jack: (half-smiling) “You know, maybe Sobti was right. A relaxed birthday — no drama, no fuss — maybe that’s what keeps you real.”

Jeeny: “And maybe real is all you’ve ever needed to be.”

Host: The waves rolled in again, slow and forgiving, washing the sand clean with each touch. Jack blew out the candle. The smoke curled upward, twisting gently before dissolving into air.

The light outside softened into evening, the sky bleeding hues of amber and violet. The café fell silent again, but this silence was different — no longer lonely, no longer empty.

Jack leaned back, eyes on the sea. Jeeny smiled, resting her chin on her hands. For a moment, the world seemed perfectly balanced between sound and stillness.

Host: And so the day faded, quiet and unremarkable — just as he liked it. Yet somewhere in that quiet, in the small act of being seen without demand, something sacred stirred. Not joy, not sorrow — just presence.

And that, perhaps, was the truest celebration of all.