I'm going to hide - I always do on my birthday, I never celebrate

Host: The evening air was thick with the smell of rain and old wine. In a dim apartment overlooking the city, the lights from passing cars splashed color across the cracked walls — red, gold, fleeting. A single candle burned on the small table, its flame trembling under the slow rhythm of the wind sneaking through an open window.

The clock ticked quietly, indifferent, marking the slow passage of another year.

Jack sat on the couch, collar undone, sleeves rolled, a half-empty glass of whiskey dangling from his hand. Jeeny stood by the window, arms crossed, staring at the streetlights below. Her reflection flickered in the glass — two versions of her, one real, one distant.

Jeeny: “Laila Rouass once said, ‘I’m going to hide — I always do on my birthday, I never celebrate birthdays.’”

Jack: smirks faintly “Now that’s a philosophy I can get behind. Birthdays are just reminders — another lap around the sun, closer to the finish line.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound like existence is a marathon of despair.”

Jack: takes a sip “Tell me it isn’t. Every year, we pretend we’ve conquered time. Cake, candles, applause — all distractions. The truth’s quieter, meaner. We’re just older, not wiser.”

Jeeny: turns toward him “Or maybe we’re wiser, but too afraid to admit what we’ve learned.”

Jack: “And what’s that?”

Jeeny: “That growing up isn’t progress — it’s surrender. We stop dreaming, stop reaching, start hiding.”

Host: The flame from the candle flickered, stretching shadows across the room like long, black fingers. The air was heavy with the smell of wax and whiskey — the scent of nostalgia pretending to be calm.

Outside, a distant church bell struck eight times, each chime landing softly, like footsteps into memory.

Jack: “So you think hiding is surrender?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes it’s survival. Some people hide because they can’t stand being celebrated for existing. There’s something honest about that.”

Jack: raises an eyebrow “Honest? Or just broken?”

Jeeny: “Maybe both. Don’t you ever feel like birthdays are too loud for what they’re trying to hide?”

Jack: “You mean the loneliness.”

Jeeny: nods “Exactly. People wrap it in balloons and laughter, but deep down — they’re terrified of time.”

Jack: “Time doesn’t care about terror.”

Jeeny: “No. But we do. That’s why we light candles — not for the wish, but for the illusion of control. One breath, one flame gone. It feels like power.”

Host: The wind sighed through the window again, flicking the candlelight against the ceiling. The shadows danced like old ghosts — the kind that knew your name.

Jack’s eyes softened, the cynicism fading just enough to show the ache beneath.

Jack: “You know, I used to hide too. Every year, I’d drive out to the coast. No phone, no messages. Just waves. I told myself it was peace, but it was really avoidance.”

Jeeny: “Avoidance of what?”

Jack: “Of the mirror that birthdays hold up. Of the question they ask without saying it: What have you done with your time?”

Jeeny: quietly “And what’s your answer?”

Jack: after a pause “Still waiting to find it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why you keep surviving them.”

Jack: bitter smile “Or why they keep surviving me.”

Host: The rain began, soft and steady. It tapped against the glass in perfect rhythm — a melody only the lonely could hear.

The city lights blurred into watercolor through the window, each one smearing into the next like old regrets.

Jeeny: “Laila hides because she doesn’t need witnesses to her becoming older. Maybe that’s grace — to face yourself quietly.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s fear — to face yourself at all.”

Jeeny: “Why does it have to be fear? Maybe silence is its own celebration.”

Jack: “That’s poetic, Jeeny. But people don’t light candles in silence — they do it to be seen. Even hiding is a performance.”

Jeeny: steps closer, her tone soft but firm “Not always. Sometimes the hiding is sacred. A rebellion against the noise of expectation. A way of saying: I owe this day to no one but myself.”

Jack: “That’s selfish.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s self-preservation. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “You really think you can separate the two?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But that’s the art of living — learning to balance guilt with grace.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, tracing long silver lines down the glass. The single candle flickered again — almost dying, then stubbornly returning, its light trembling but unbroken.

Jack stared at it, then looked at Jeeny, his voice quieter now.

Jack: “You ever think hiding isn’t about the world — it’s about the noise inside your own head? That maybe birthdays hurt because they make you remember the versions of yourself you left behind?”

Jeeny: her voice softens, a hint of sadness “Maybe. Or maybe they remind you of the promises you never kept — to yourself, to others. Every year, that voice gets louder.”

Jack: nods slowly “Yeah. Like a metronome counting down.”

Jeeny: “Or counting through.”

Jack: “Through what?”

Jeeny: “Through the loneliness. Through the years. Through the idea that we’re supposed to find meaning before the candles go out.”

Jack: smiles faintly “And what if we don’t?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the meaning is the act of trying.”

Host: The clock ticked again. Eleven minutes past eight. The flame leaned toward Jeeny now, as though drawn to her quiet certainty.

The rain outside softened, leaving the faint smell of petrichor — the scent of earth washed clean, even if only for a moment.

Jack: sighs “You know something, Jeeny? Maybe I’ll hide next year. No cake, no people, no performance. Just… silence.”

Jeeny: smiles gently “Then promise me one thing.”

Jack: “What’s that?”

Jeeny: “When you hide, don’t do it to disappear. Do it to listen.”

Jack: nods “To what?”

Jeeny: whispers “To yourself. To the quiet voice that doesn’t care about years — only moments.”

Jack: after a long silence “You make solitude sound like salvation.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. The only kind we ever get.”

Host: The candle finally flickered out. The room dimmed into shadow, lit only by the faint blue glow from the city outside. Jack sat still, eyes lifted to the ceiling, as if tracing the outline of a thought he hadn’t dared to say aloud.

Jeeny turned from the window and sat beside him. Neither spoke.

The silence between them wasn’t emptiness. It was peace — the kind that comes after you stop running from yourself.

Outside, the city went on breathing — loud, restless, alive. But inside that small, rain-soaked room, two souls sat together in their quiet rebellion against celebration,
realizing that sometimes the best way to honor life
is to simply pause,
to hide,
to breathe,
and to let the silence sing the song of another year survived.