My birthday is Feb. 11, and I'm both excited and not excited by

Host: The sky above the city pier was a tapestry of deep violet and silver clouds, the kind of evening that hums with the soft electricity of endings and beginnings. The ocean stretched out, wide and dark, breathing in slow rhythm as if it too were caught between youth and age. A ferris wheel, far down the boardwalk, turned in slow grace, its lights flickering like distant memories.

Jack and Jeeny sat at the edge of the wooden pier, their legs dangling above the dark water, their reflections swaying with the waves. A small cupcake sat between them — one candle flickering uncertainly against the breeze.

Jeeny: “Q’orianka Kilcher once said, ‘My birthday is February 11, and I’m both excited and not excited by it. You’ll never be fifteen again, and you really, really need to savor every day like it’s your last.’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Fifteen. That’s the age when everything still feels like a rehearsal for something bigger. Then you find out — that was the show.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. She was young, but she got it — the bittersweet truth that time doesn’t give encores.”

Jack: “You sound nostalgic. Don’t tell me you miss high school.”

Jeeny: “No. I miss the way time felt elastic then — like there was so much of it, you could waste whole afternoons and still believe tomorrow was infinite.”

Jack: “Yeah. Until you blink, and the mirror tells you otherwise.”

Host: The wind caught the candle flame, bending it sideways but never extinguishing it. The air smelled of salt, sugar, and nostalgia — that invisible scent that only appears on the cusp of birthdays and goodbyes.

Jeeny: “She said it perfectly — you’ll never be fifteen again. There’s something terrifying about that, isn’t there? Every version of us dies quietly the moment the next one begins.”

Jack: “You make growing up sound like a funeral.”

Jeeny: “It is, in a way. You bury your yesterday self, hoping tomorrow’s version will be worth the grief.”

Jack: “You think that’s why people fear birthdays? Because they’re reminders of how temporary every version of us is?”

Jeeny: “No — because they’re reminders that we stop savoring. We start counting.”

Host: The waves crashed below, rhythmic and indifferent. The boardwalk lights shimmered in their eyes, reflections of the past masquerading as the present.

Jack: “When I was fifteen, I thought life was a movie waiting to happen. I kept waiting for the soundtrack to start.”

Jeeny: “And did it?”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Only in the rearview. You never hear it when it’s playing — only when it’s over.”

Jeeny: “That’s because you stopped listening. When you’re young, every heartbeat sounds like a drum roll.”

Jack: “And now?”

Jeeny: “Now it sounds like a metronome.”

Jack: “Efficient. Predictable.”

Jeeny: “Lifeless.”

Host: A seagull cried overhead — one sharp, lonely note that vanished into the vastness. Jeeny leaned forward, shielding the candle flame from the wind with her hand. The tiny light glowed between them, fragile but stubborn.

Jeeny: “Kilcher was right — we have to savor every day like it’s our last. Not because we’re dying — but because moments are.”

Jack: “You sound like someone afraid of time.”

Jeeny: “No. I’m afraid of forgetting it.”

Jack: “Forgetting what?”

Jeeny: “How it feels to be alive. Not successful, not safe — just alive. The way fifteen feels when you laugh so hard you forget why. When every sunset feels personal.”

Jack: “You think that’s innocence.”

Jeeny: “No — attention. That’s what youth really is. We just pay more attention.”

Host: Jack looked out toward the horizon, where the sun melted into the ocean’s edge. His eyes softened, the reflection of gold light shimmering in his expression like rediscovered wonder.

Jack: “You ever notice how time speeds up when you stop paying attention? Like the clock knows when you’ve stopped looking.”

Jeeny: “Maybe time isn’t what passes — maybe it’s what notices.”

Jack: “That’s poetic.”

Jeeny: “It’s also terrifying.”

Jack: “Because?”

Jeeny: “Because it means the moment you stop seeing beauty, time stops seeing you.”

Host: The candle flickered again. This time, Jack cupped his hands around it, protecting it instinctively, like a memory.

Jack: “You know, I think we’re wired to mourn ourselves in advance. That’s why birthdays feel both exciting and tragic.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because each year isn’t just a beginning — it’s a soft ending too.”

Jack: “So what, we just pretend to celebrate it?”

Jeeny: “No. We do both. We toast to our ghosts.”

Jack: “Our ghosts?”

Jeeny: “All the versions of us that didn’t make it to this year.”

Host: Jack nodded slowly, his expression unreadable, his voice dropping to a near whisper.

Jack: “I think I’d like to meet them again. The past selves.”

Jeeny: “You already do, every time you regret something.”

Jack: “Then my reunions are crowded.”

Jeeny: (smiling gently) “That means you’ve lived.”

Host: The pier lights dimmed, one by one, as the boardwalk emptied. Somewhere behind them, the ferris wheel halted, its last car swaying gently in the wind. The world seemed to exhale — slow, melancholy, but at peace.

Jeeny reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small matchbox. She struck a match and lit another candle beside the first.

Jeeny: “You know, every year we say we’ll start fresh. But what if the point isn’t to start over — it’s to start awake?”

Jack: “Awake to what?”

Jeeny: “To the fact that being fifteen, twenty-five, fifty — it’s all the same if you’re paying attention.”

Jack: “That’s your philosophy then? Stay awake?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because life doesn’t get shorter — our awareness does.”

Host: The flames danced together, twin threads of gold in the violet air. The sea sighed, the stars blinked awake.

Jack looked at her, a rare smile warming his features.

Jack: “You know, I used to dread my birthdays. They felt like deadlines.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now they feel like chances.”

Jeeny: “That’s all they ever were.”

Jack: “Maybe Kilcher was right — you’ll never be fifteen again. But maybe you don’t have to be.”

Jeeny: “Why not?”

Jack: “Because maybe fifteen wasn’t an age. Maybe it was just a way of seeing.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The camera pans out, rising above the pier, the waves glowing faintly in the last light of dusk. The two figures sit side by side, their faces lit by candlelight, surrounded by the soft, eternal hum of the sea.

Host (softly): “We spend so much time fearing the end of youth that we forget — youth was never time. It was presence.”

The flames flicker, merge, and finally steady.

And as the night deepens, the world seems to pause —
just long enough for Jack and Jeeny to savor the moment,
as though it were their last.