I'm not a birthday person. Maybe because I don't like to build

Host: The evening was half-rain, half-light — the kind of twilight that blurred reflections on the glass café window, making the city outside look like a watercolor in motion. The crowd had thinned; only a few stragglers lingered over their cups, talking in low voices that hummed like memory.

At a corner table, Jack sat with a small slice of cake before him — unlit candle, untouched. Jeeny leaned on her elbow across from him, stirring her coffee with deliberate slowness. The warmth from the lamp above cast a soft glow over her face, while the faint drizzle outside traced silver lines across the windowpane.

Host: It was his birthday, though neither of them had said the word.

Jeeny: “Ranbir Kapoor once said, ‘I’m not a birthday person. Maybe because I don’t like to build expectations around that one day. You never know how it’ll turn out to be.’”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Smart man. Nothing ruins a day faster than expecting it to mean something.”

Host: His voice was calm but carried a weariness that was almost elegant — the tone of someone who’s learned that disappointment doesn’t shout, it hums softly beneath the surface of joy.

Jeeny: “You really don’t like birthdays, do you?”

Jack: “I like the idea of them. The pause, the reflection. But not the performance. I don’t need candles to remind me I’ve survived another year — I just need silence.”

Jeeny: “You think that’s wisdom or armor?”

Jack: “Both. Maybe the difference doesn’t matter anymore.”

Host: He pushed the plate toward her — the frosting untouched, a gesture that was more confession than offering.

Jeeny: “You know, I get it. Birthdays are strange rituals. We celebrate the passage of time like it’s an achievement instead of an inevitability.”

Jack: “Exactly. People toast to youth as if they can outdrink mortality.”

Jeeny: “And yet, there’s something kind about the gesture. People remembering you — even for a day.”

Jack: “Yeah, but it’s the expectation that poisons it. You start the day thinking maybe this year will feel different — and by midnight, you realize you’re the same person in a new candle count.”

Host: The rain outside deepened, painting soft ripples across the glass. Inside, the café was a cocoon — safe, detached from the chaos of the city, suspended in its own quiet truth.

Jeeny: “Maybe the problem isn’t the expectation. Maybe it’s what we expect — miracles in a day that’s only meant to mark existence.”

Jack: “Miracles don’t like calendars.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Neither do you.”

Jack: “I stopped trusting time the day I realized it moves on whether I do or not.”

Jeeny: “So what would your perfect birthday be, then? No cake, no calls, no celebration?”

Jack: “Just a long walk. Maybe rain. Maybe nobody knowing.”

Jeeny: “That sounds lonely.”

Jack: “It’s not. It’s… honest. Some days don’t need to be louder to mean something.”

Host: Her eyes softened — that mixture of sympathy and understanding that only comes from someone who’s been through the same quiet disillusionment.

Jeeny: “You know, when I was little, I used to count down to my birthday for weeks. Not for the gifts — for the attention. The world finally stopped long enough to notice me. Then one year, nobody remembered. And I realized that kind of attention fades faster than wrapping paper.”

Jack: “That’s when you learn the truth — the people who remember without reminders are the only ones that matter.”

Jeeny: “And what about the ones who forget but love you anyway?”

Jack: “They’re the ones who make love feel timeless.”

Host: A pause. The kind that feels full, not empty — silence that breathes rather than lingers. The candle between them caught a brief flicker of air, its flame small but insistent, like a whisper that refused to die.

Jeeny: “Maybe birthdays aren’t about expectations. Maybe they’re just mirrors — reminders of how we’ve changed, or how we haven’t.”

Jack: “Mirrors are cruel on birthdays.”

Jeeny: “Only if you look for what’s gone instead of what’s still there.”

Host: Her voice was gentle but firm, the kind that could cut through fog. Jack’s eyes drifted back to the window — to the reflections of the passing cars, the streaks of color, the blurred outlines of people hurrying home.

Jack: “You ever notice how birthdays feel shorter the older you get?”

Jeeny: “That’s because they stop being about beginnings and start being about endurance.”

Jack: “Endurance deserves applause, don’t you think?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But not the loud kind. Just someone sitting across from you in a café, refusing to let you eat cake alone.”

Host: He looked up then, and smiled — not the forced, polite smile of birthdays, but something quieter, warmer.

Jack: “You’re doing that thing again.”

Jeeny: “What thing?”

Jack: “Making ordinary things sound like philosophy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe philosophy is just noticing ordinary things before they disappear.”

Host: The rain softened to a drizzle. The city beyond the window pulsed in rhythm with their silence.

Jack: “You think Kapoor meant that — the unpredictability of it all?”

Jeeny: “Of course. You plan, you hope, you imagine — and then life shows up with its own agenda. Maybe that’s the beauty of not expecting. You stop trying to choreograph joy.”

Jack: “You let it surprise you.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. No party. No pressure. Just presence.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, reaching for the candle. He struck a match, its brief flare reflected in his eyes, then lit the small wick.

Jeeny: “What’s the wish?”

Jack: (smiling) “That nothing changes — except how I see it.”

Host: The flame steadied, small but unwavering — like a fragile kind of peace. Jeeny watched it, her expression somewhere between pride and affection.

Jeeny: “You know, for someone who doesn’t like birthdays, you make them meaningful.”

Jack: “That’s only because you’re here to witness it.”

Host: The candle burned lower, its light painting their faces in soft gold. The rain stopped completely, leaving the world outside washed and quiet.

Jeeny: “So what now?”

Jack: “Now? We eat the cake before it gets cold.”

Jeeny: “You don’t eat cake cold.”

Jack: “Exactly. You see? Even expectations can learn manners.”

Host: They laughed — that rare kind of laughter that sounds like the closing of an old wound.

And as the candle finally flickered out, its smoke curling like memory into the air, the night exhaled with them — as if to agree with what Ranbir Kapoor already knew:

Host: That the most honest way to celebrate life isn’t in planned perfection, but in quiet acceptance — the kind that lets each moment, even the smallest, unfold without expectation and end without regret.