I've never really made a big deal out of my birthday.

Host: The café sat at the edge of the city, tucked beneath a row of old brick buildings, the kind that still whispered stories when the night grew quiet. The rain had been falling since morning, painting the windows with streaks of silver. Inside, the air was warm, thick with the smell of coffee, vanilla, and loneliness disguised as comfort.

A single candle flickered on a small table near the window — half melted, forgotten.

Jack sat there, his hands wrapped around a mug, eyes distant. The evening light caught the faint streaks of gray in his hair, and for a moment, he looked like someone caught between two lives — one that had already ended and another that hadn’t begun.

Jeeny arrived quietly, her coat damp, her hair loose around her face. She paused, watching him before she spoke.

Jeeny: “You weren’t going to tell me, were you?”

Jack: (without looking up) “Tell you what?”

Jeeny: “That it’s your birthday.”

Jack: (smirks) “It’s just another Tuesday, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “Nikki Reed once said, ‘I’ve never really made a big deal out of my birthday.’ Sounds familiar.”

Jack: “Smart woman. She probably figured out that getting older isn’t something to celebrate.”

Jeeny: “It’s something to notice. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “You think lighting a few candles and pretending time isn’t winning makes it better?”

Jeeny: “No. But acknowledging it means you’re still here. Still playing.”

Host: The rain outside softened, tapping rhythmically against the glass, a slow, steady percussion that filled the silences between them.

Jeeny: “You know, most people would kill for another year.”

Jack: “Yeah, and most people waste the ones they already have.”

Jeeny: “So you don’t celebrate because you don’t see a point?”

Jack: “Because it feels like lying. Like throwing a party for a clock that keeps taking things away.”

Jeeny: “That’s a bleak way to look at it.”

Jack: “Realistic.”

Jeeny: “Or scared.”

Host: Jack looked up then, his eyes sharp but tired — like a man who’d fought too many invisible wars.

Jack: “You think I’m scared of getting old?”

Jeeny: “No. I think you’re scared of realizing how much time you’ve spent surviving instead of living.”

Host: The café’s lights hummed softly, the faint buzz of electricity mingling with the smell of wet pavement. A couple at the counter laughed — young, careless, full of noise. Jack’s eyes flickered toward them for a moment before returning to Jeeny.

Jack: “You ever feel like birthdays are just reminders of everything you didn’t do?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. But they’re also reminders of everything you still can.”

Jack: “That sounds like something people say to make themselves feel better.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s something people say when they’re brave enough to start again.”

Host: Jack leaned back, exhaling slowly. His reflection in the window blurred with the rain — a ghost overlapping his real face.

Jack: “When I was a kid, birthdays meant noise. My dad would bring home cake, cheap candles, maybe even fireworks if he’d had a good week. Now it’s just… silence.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the silence is asking for something new.”

Jack: “Like what?”

Jeeny: “Like presence. Like letting someone sit with you while you figure it out.”

Host: The barista dimmed the lights slightly, as if sensing the shift in mood. The candle on Jack’s table wavered, its flame bending under an invisible breeze.

Jeeny: “You know what I think?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “I think people who say they don’t make a big deal out of birthdays usually have too much heart to admit they want someone else to.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “So you’re saying I secretly want attention?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying you secretly want to be seen.”

Jack: “And what’s the difference?”

Jeeny: “Attention fades. Being seen heals.”

Host: Her words hung in the air like a soft melody that neither wanted to end.

Jack: “You always make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. But it starts with something small. A candle. A wish. A little gratitude.”

Jack: “You think gratitude fixes everything?”

Jeeny: “No. But it keeps you from breaking further.”

Host: Outside, the rain had stopped. The streetlights flickered against puddles, each one reflecting the city like a world upside down. Inside, the warmth of the café felt almost fragile, like it could shatter if someone raised their voice too loud.

Jack: “You know, I think that’s why I hate birthdays. They make you remember the years you wasted. The things you didn’t say.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe this one’s about the things you still can.”

Jack: “You make it sound like I’ve got time.”

Jeeny: “You do — until you don’t.”

Host: She slid a small paper bag across the table — something she’d been holding since she walked in.

Jack: “What’s this?”

Jeeny: “A cupcake. Don’t get excited. It’s gluten-free.”

Jack: (laughing) “You really know how to ruin a celebration.”

Jeeny: “I told you — small things.”

Host: She pulled out a single candle from her coat pocket and lit it with a match. The tiny flame flickered, illuminating the space between them.

Jeeny: “Go on. Make a wish.”

Jack: “I don’t do that anymore.”

Jeeny: “Then just close your eyes and breathe.”

Host: He did. The room seemed to pause for a moment, as if the entire café held its breath with him. The flame wavered, then steadied again.

Jeeny: “What did you think of?”

Jack: “Nothing. And everything.”

Host: The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was soft, alive — the kind of quiet that carries meaning instead of absence.

Jack: “You know, maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s not about celebrating time passing. Maybe it’s about noticing that it still is.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Birthdays aren’t about counting years — they’re about remembering you still get to try.”

Jack: “And if I fail again?”

Jeeny: “Then we light another candle next year.”

Host: Jack smiled, really smiled this time — the kind that makes the eyes crease, the kind that feels like the first breath after a long dive.

Jack: “You’re relentless, you know that?”

Jeeny: “Someone has to be.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — through the glass, past the glowing candle, into the dark street where the rain had stopped but the world still glistened.

Inside the café, Jack and Jeeny sat together — no cake, no crowd, no noise. Just warmth. Just presence. Just life continuing quietly, beautifully.

The flame flickered once more, then steadied — a small light that refused to go out.

And for the first time in years, Jack didn’t think of his birthday as a reminder of time lost.

He thought of it as a whisper — gentle, forgiving —
telling him that being alive was reason enough to celebrate.