I remember when I was working at Sprint, I'd work on my birthday

Host: The morning sun was a pale, uncertain light, filtering through the wide windows of a call center that never really slept. The rows of cubicles stretched endlessly, each one a small universe of headsets, keyboards, and half-empty coffee cups. The hum of machines and murmured voices filled the air, a steady, mechanical heartbeat that never stopped—not even on holidays.

Outside, the city was glittering with Christmas decorations, but inside, the only lights were the cold, fluorescent kind that made even dreams look tired.

Jack sat at his desk, tapping the same keys, answering the same calls, his face illuminated by the blue screen glow. He was 35, sharp-featured, eyes the color of storm steel, his voice low and practiced—half human warmth, half protocol.

Across the aisle, Jeeny hung up her headset, stretching, the cord of her ID badge swinging like a small pendulum. She was small, with long black hair, brown eyes that still carried some kind of fire, even in this fluorescent world. On her desk, a small cupcake with one candle sat untouched.

It was Jack’s birthday.

Jeeny: “You’re not even going to blow it out?”

Jack: “Nah. Can’t. Got two more calls in the queue.”

Jeeny: “Jack, it’s your birthday.”

Jack: “So?”

Jeeny: “So—most people take at least a minute to remember they’re alive.”

Jack: “Most people don’t have a backlog this bad.”

Host: A laugh escaped her, quick and real, like a spark in a room full of machines. But then, her eyes softened, her voice lowering as she looked at the cupcake again.

Jeeny: “You remind me of that quote from Prince Royce—you know, ‘I remember when I was working at Sprint, I'd work on my birthday, New Year's Day, and even Christmas Eve. I'm just used to working on my birthday, so I'll be celebrating it afterward.’”

Jack: “I like that guy. Realistic. Knows the world doesn’t pause just because the calendar says it should.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe he just learned to wait for joy until after the shift ends.”

Jack: “Isn’t that what adulthood is?”

Jeeny: “Only if you let it be.”

Host: A new ringtone cut through the air—sharp, metallic, unfeeling. Jack put his headset back on, his voice switching into that automatic, polite tone reserved for strangers who always wanted more than you could give.

Jeeny watched him for a moment—his shoulders tense, his face neutral—and then turned back to her own screen. But she wasn’t typing. She was thinking.

Jeeny: “Do you ever wonder when work stops being what we do and starts becoming who we are?”

Jack: “It’s who we are because it’s what keeps us fed.”

Jeeny: “You sound like my father.”

Jack: “Then maybe he was right.”

Jeeny: “He wasn’t. He died still saving up his vacation days.”

Host: The words hung there like dust in the light—invisible until the sun caught them, impossible to ignore once it did.

Jack leaned back, removed his headset, his eyes meeting hers across the narrow aisle.

Jack: “You think we’re fools for doing what we do?”

Jeeny: “No. I think we’re survivors for doing what we do. But survival isn’t living.”

Jack: “Living doesn’t pay rent.”

Jeeny: “Neither does dying inside your cubicle.”

Host: A silence filled the room. Outside, a delivery truck rattled by, its radio faintly playing a Spanish pop song—Prince Royce’s voice, coincidentally, floating through the thin glass.

Jack smirked, the irony not lost on him.

Jack: “You set this up, didn’t you?”

Jeeny: “What, the song? Please. If I had that kind of power, I’d have us both in Puerto Rico by now.”

Jack: “Working?”

Jeeny: “Celebrating.”

Host: She smiled, and for the first time that day, something in the room shifted. The hum of computers seemed softer, the lights less cruel.

Jack looked at the cupcake again—the small, ridiculous flame still burning.

Jack: “You know, I used to hate birthdays. My mom worked double shifts too. We’d celebrate at midnight. She’d bring me a piece of cake from the diner. Still in her uniform. But she’d smile like she’d just come home from the moon.”

Jeeny: “And you?”

Jack: “I’d just want her to sleep. But she’d always say, ‘It’s not a birthday if you don’t stop to see you made it another year.’”

Jeeny: “Smart woman.”

Jack: “Yeah. And tired.”

Host: The rain outside had started again, soft, steady, like the sound of someone breathing. Jeeny stood, walked over, and placed the cupcake right in front of Jack.

Jeeny: “Take one minute, Jack. That’s all. The calls can wait. The world won’t end.”

Jack: “It never does. That’s the problem.”

Jeeny: “You can’t work your whole life waiting for the afterward.”

Jack: “Maybe afterward’s all we get.”

Jeeny: “Only if you give it everything before then.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked louder than before, or maybe they had just begun to hear it. The cupcake flame danced in the faint draft, reflected in Jack’s eyes—a small, stubborn light in a room full of machines.

He leaned forward, his breath slow, hesitant, then blew it out. The smoke curled upward, twisting like a whisper, a small, symbolic pause in a life too full of noise.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… maybe that’s the real trick—knowing how to pause without quitting.”

Jeeny: “That’s the art of it. Working without losing yourself.”

Jack: “And when you do lose yourself?”

Jeeny: “You light a candle. Even if it’s only for a minute.”

Host: Somewhere deep in the office, another phone rang, and the spell began to fade. But something had changed—a pulse of humanity in the fluorescent hive.

Jack picked up his headset again, but this time, his voice had a trace of warmth—a tone that came from someone who had, however briefly, remembered what it meant to exist beyond the schedule.

Host: Outside, the rain had stopped, and the sun—that rare, late December light—broke through the clouds, hitting the windows in a blaze of soft gold.

For a moment, it illuminated the tiny cupcake, the wisp of smoke, and the two workers sitting across from each other—tired, real, alive.

Prince Royce’s words still echoed faintly in the air, like a quiet truth the world too often forgets:

“I’m just used to working on my birthday… so I’ll be celebrating it afterward.”

But maybe—just maybe—celebration didn’t have to wait.

Not this time.