Since the day I got married, I never got to plan my birthday.

Host: The apartment smelled faintly of cardboard boxes, burnt toast, and the ghost of a half-forgotten argument. The city lights spilled through the balcony curtains, broken by raindrops that clung to the glass like tiny worlds refusing to fall. It was 11:47 p.m. — the edge of a birthday that hadn’t been celebrated, not properly, not freely, not in years.

Jack sat on the floor, back against the sofa, a half-empty beer bottle beside him. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, tie discarded somewhere near the table, where a few crumbs of cake remained — the kind you buy out of obligation, not joy.

Jeeny was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, her arms crossed, watching the flickering candlelight from the leftover slice. It was the only light in the room — soft, trembling, like something afraid to exist.

A message blinked on Jack’s phone: Happy Birthday, man. He didn’t answer. He never did anymore.

Jeeny: “You didn’t even make a wish this time.”

Jack: “What’s the point? Wishes don’t age well.”

Jeeny: “Neither do excuses.”

Jack: (smirking faintly) “You sound like my wife.”

Jeeny: “That’s probably because I am.”

Host: The rain outside quickened, a curtain of silver noise that softened the edges of everything. Jeeny moved closer, her steps slow, her shadow crossing his.

Jeeny: “You know what Barun Sobti once said? ‘Since the day I got married, I never got to plan my birthday.’”

Jack: (laughing bitterly) “Fitting. I could’ve said that myself.”

Jeeny: “Yeah, but he said it with a smile.”

Jack: “Then he’s a better man than me.”

Host: She knelt beside him, her eyes catching the candlelight, warm and wounded all at once. Jack looked at her, then at the candle — the small, flickering symbol of another year he didn’t feel he’d lived.

Jeeny: “You really think marriage steals birthdays?”

Jack: “It steals time. It steals plans. It steals the idea that a day can belong to you.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it just teaches you that no day ever really does.”

Jack: “You sound philosophical tonight.”

Jeeny: “No, just tired. Of watching you treat life like a shift you didn’t sign up for.”

Jack: “That’s harsh.”

Jeeny: “It’s honest.”

Host: The clock ticked louder in the silence that followed — the kind of silence filled with invisible words. Jack took another sip of his beer, staring into the dull golden liquid as if searching for something he once believed in.

Jack: “You know what birthdays used to mean to me? Freedom. A day I could do whatever I wanted — no deadlines, no expectations. Just me and the road.”

Jeeny: “And what stopped you?”

Jack: “Responsibility. Marriage. Life.”

Jeeny: “You mean love.”

Jack: “Love doesn’t stop people from being themselves.”

Jeeny: “No, but it asks them to share themselves. There’s a difference.”

Host: The rain softened, becoming a steady hush against the glass. The candle flame trembled, its shadow dancing over the boxes stacked in corners — the remnants of a move they still hadn’t finished unpacking.

Jeeny: “You act like marriage took something from you. But maybe it gave you something you don’t want to admit.”

Jack: “Like what? Guilt?”

Jeeny: “Like purpose.”

Jack: “You call this purpose? Paying bills, running late, eating takeout, pretending birthdays don’t matter?”

Jeeny: “No. Purpose is showing up. Every day. Even when it’s not about you anymore.”

Jack: “That’s exactly my point — it’s never about me.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what growing up is.”

Jack: “Then maybe I liked being a child.”

Jeeny: “You still are, Jack. Just not the kind who plays.”

Host: Her voice softened then, almost breaking. Jack looked up — her eyes were glistening, not with anger, but with the weight of too many unspoken years.

Jeeny: “You think marriage is a thief. But it’s just a mirror. It shows you the parts of yourself you don’t want to face — the selfish parts, the scared parts, the tired parts.”

Jack: “And the lonely parts?”

Jeeny: “Especially those.”

Host: A flash of lightning briefly illuminated the room — everything sharp, crystalline, painfully clear. The thunder followed, low and slow, like a truth too heavy to ignore.

Jack: “You ever miss your own birthday?”

Jeeny: “Every year.”

Jack: “Then why do you still try?”

Jeeny: “Because I still hope one day you’ll remember it’s not just yours.”

Jack: “You mean… ours?”

Jeeny: “All of it. The years. The quiet moments. Even the forgotten ones. Marriage isn’t a series of days we take turns owning. It’s one long day we keep trying to light together.”

Host: Jack looked at her for a long moment, the truth of her words sinking in — slow, heavy, and strangely tender. He leaned back, exhaling, the fight leaving his shoulders.

Jack: “You make it sound so noble.”

Jeeny: “It’s not noble. It’s messy. It’s ordinary. But it’s real.”

Jack: “And what about birthdays?”

Jeeny: “They’re reminders. That even in ordinary life, you still deserve to be seen.”

Host: Jeeny stood, walked to the small table, and picked up the last slice of cake. The candle still flickered on it, the flame’s reflection trembling on her wedding ring.

She carried it back to him, kneeling once more, setting it before him on the floor.

Jeeny: “Go on. Make a wish. You’ve got ten minutes left before the day’s gone.”

Jack: “You said wishes don’t fix anything.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But they remind you that you still want something.”

Host: The rain eased to a drizzle. The city outside quieted, its noise softened by distance and night. Jack stared at the flame — small, golden, defiant. He drew in a slow breath.

Jack: “I wish…” (he hesitated, then smiled faintly) “I wish I’d learned sooner that not every unplanned thing is a loss.”

Jeeny: “That’s a good start.”

Host: He blew out the candle. The room dimmed, but didn’t darken. The faint glow from the window bathed them both in muted silver light.

For a long moment, neither moved. Then Jeeny leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder. The world outside faded into rhythm — rain, breath, heartbeat — all blending into one quiet, forgiving song.

Jack whispered, barely audible:

Jack: “Maybe next year, you plan my birthday.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Maybe I already have.”

Host: The clock struck midnight. Another year gone, another year waiting. The candle’s smoke curled upward — delicate, fleeting, but real.

And in that small, imperfect apartment, amid the smell of rain and cake and ordinary love, something new was quietly rebuilt — not a celebration, but a choice.

A choice to stay.

A choice to plan the next birthday together.