Some people won't go the extra mile, and then on their birthday

Host: The morning began with that dull gray light that makes everything — the sky, the street, the soul — look like it hasn’t had its coffee yet. A faint drizzle smeared the café window, blurring the figures outside into moving shadows. The place smelled of espresso, wet pavement, and quiet disappointment — the city’s perfume.

Jack sat in the corner booth, his shirt collar open, his hands wrapped around a mug that had long gone cold. Jeeny walked in, shaking rain from her black hair, her brown eyes bright against the gloom. She spotted him instantly. She always did.

Host: They had been friends for years — close enough to argue, distant enough to stay. And today, something in Jack’s posture told her this conversation would cut a little deeper than usual.

Jeeny: “You look like a man who forgot his own birthday.”

Jack: “Maybe I did. Saves me the disappointment.”

Jeeny: “You could’ve told someone. I would’ve made you a cake.”

Jack: “Yeah. But then I’d have to pretend to be surprised.”

Host: Jeeny smiled, but her smile faltered — he wasn’t joking.

Jeeny: “You know what Anne Lamott once said? ‘Some people won’t go the extra mile, and then on their birthday, when no one makes a fuss, they feel neglected and bitter.’”

Jack: dryly “You quoting her at me, or yourself?”

Jeeny: “You, obviously. Though I might have my own file in that cabinet.”

Jack: “Figures.”

Host: The rain tapped harder, like fingers drumming on a locked door. Inside, the espresso machine hissed, a small storm of steam and sound.

Jeeny: “You ever think maybe people can’t celebrate you if you don’t let them in?”

Jack: “I don’t want a celebration. I just want…” He paused, searching for words. “...someone to notice without being told.”

Jeeny: “That’s not noticing, Jack. That’s mind reading.”

Jack: “Same thing.”

Jeeny: “No. That’s pride pretending to be pain.”

Host: Jack’s eyes lifted, sharp now — the gray of storm clouds just before lightning.

Jack: “You think I’m proud because I don’t beg for attention?”

Jeeny: “No. I think you hide behind independence because you’re afraid of being disappointed.”

Jack: “Better to expect nothing.”

Jeeny: “Then you’ll get exactly that.”

Host: The air shifted between them — warm with tension, heavy with truth. Outside, a bus splashed through puddles, sending a brief wave of gray light rippling across their faces.

Jack: “You make it sound so easy — ‘go the extra mile.’ What if people are just tired, Jeeny? What if they’ve already walked too far for others, and no one ever walked back?”

Jeeny: “Then you still walk. Not for them — for yourself. The extra mile isn’t about other people. It’s about proving to your own heart that it’s still open.”

Jack: “And when it’s not?”

Jeeny: “Then you stop expecting confetti for silence.”

Host: Jeeny leaned back, her hands around her cup, the steam rising between them like a veil. Her voice softened, though her words didn’t.

Jeeny: “You know, I used to be like that. I’d bake cakes for everyone, remember birthdays, call when no one else did. Then one year — my own birthday — nothing. Not a message. Not a candle. I cried the whole day.”

Jack: “And then?”

Jeeny: “Then I realized I was keeping score in a game no one else knew they were playing.”

Jack: “So you stopped caring?”

Jeeny: “No. I stopped expecting. And started giving without needing to be seen.”

Jack: “Sounds lonely.”

Jeeny: “It’s freeing. Because love that depends on being matched is just transaction, not connection.”

Host: The rain softened, but the world outside remained blurred — like memory, or regret. Jack stared out at it, the faint reflection of his face merging with the silhouettes on the glass.

Jack: “Maybe I don’t know how to ask. Maybe I don’t know how to need.”

Jeeny: “That’s not true. You just call it something else — solitude, focus, self-sufficiency. But it’s the same hunger. You want to matter.”

Jack: “Doesn’t everyone?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But some people light their own candles instead of waiting for the crowd.”

Host: Silence. The kind that hums. The kind that reveals more than it hides.

Jack: “You’re good at this. Turning my bitterness into a sermon.”

Jeeny: “It’s not a sermon. It’s a mirror.”

Jack: “Well, the view isn’t flattering.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because you’re seeing yourself, not your excuses.”

Host: The waitress brought another round — fresh coffee, steaming hot. Jack nodded, grateful but wordless. The smell filled the space between them like truce.

Jeeny: “You know, Lamott wasn’t mocking people like you. She was confessing. She knew that resentment is just unspent generosity.”

Jack: “Unspent generosity?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The love you wanted to give but didn’t. The call you didn’t make. The party you didn’t throw. All the things you held back, waiting to be loved first.”

Jack: “You make it sound like the cure for loneliness is work.”

Jeeny: “It is. Emotional work. The extra mile isn’t about running toward others; it’s about walking out of your own isolation.”

Host: The clock ticked. Outside, the rain had stopped entirely. The pavement glistened, the world freshly washed, as if waiting for someone to step into it.

Jack: “You really think effort fixes everything?”

Jeeny: “Not everything. But it changes the direction of your heart. That’s enough.”

Jack: “And what if I go the extra mile, and no one meets me halfway?”

Jeeny: “Then you’ll still be closer to light than if you hadn’t walked at all.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly — a tired, quiet curve of the mouth that wasn’t quite hope, but wasn’t despair either.

Jack: “You always have an answer, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “No. Just stories.”

Jack: “Then tell me one.”

Jeeny: “Okay. Once there was a man who stopped celebrating his birthday because no one remembered. He told himself it didn’t matter, that he didn’t care. One year, though, he decided to buy himself a cake. Nothing fancy — just something small. He lit one candle and sat alone at his kitchen table. He didn’t make a wish. He just looked at the flame. And you know what he realized?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “That he’d been waiting for the world to love him in a way he hadn’t even loved himself.”

Host: The words landed softly, but they hit deep — the kind of truth that doesn’t explode, but seeps.

Jack looked down at his coffee, steam curling like a silent apology.

Jack: “You think it’s too late to start walking that extra mile?”

Jeeny: “It’s never too late. But it’s best to start before your own birthday.”

Jack: smiling faintly “So, what — I just start… making a fuss for other people?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The world’s full of quiet birthdays, Jack. Light one candle, and you’ll see how quickly others glow.”

Host: Outside, the clouds broke — a thin line of sunlight cutting through the gray. It caught on the window, spilling across their table, turning the cold mugs warm with gold.

Jeeny reached into her coat and pulled out a small cupcake from a paper bag — simple, imperfect, one crooked candle stuck in the center.

Jack: “You knew?”

Jeeny: “I guessed.”

Jack: “And here I thought I’d hidden it well.”

Jeeny: “You did. But even shadows have birthdays.”

Host: She struck a match. The flame flickered, small but bright. Jack looked at it — the way it trembled, the way it refused to go out even as the air stirred.

Jeeny: “Make a wish.”

Jack: “I already got it.”

Host: The light lingered, reflecting in both their eyes, soft and alive. Outside, the city breathed again — a little brighter, a little less tired.

And in that small café, amid steam, silence, and a single crooked candle, one man finally understood Anne Lamott’s quiet warning:

That the world only echoes the love you give it.
And that sometimes, the extra mile starts with one small flame —
lit for yourself.