YOU START with the cake. There’s an age you reach where sweet becomes too sweet. Where once you would cut a slice at the precise angle to scoop extra frosting on top, but the thought of it now makes your taste receptors fire wrong. The spongy texture of the cake reduces to a paste in the back of your throat that you choke down with a gulp of some dark soda, burbling up the remnants. Sugar in all its forms of matter. You’ve started to appreciate the savory.

You stop asking for presents. It’s hard to want these days. Back when you had an imagination, toys were the medium for the stories you wanted to tell. One day after turning eleven, you had a cellphone instead; an expensive enough investment to cancel out the need for more action figures. One day after turning eighteen, you needed a laptop for college; it was more practical than a cramped hand holding a pen over loose-leaf paper. One day after turning twenty-one, you needed a vacuum, pots and pans, hangers, a bedspread, another pair of gym shoes. Money. It feels in poor taste to ask for those things, though, even on your birthday. Why want something from someone when you’re old enough to get it yourself? That’s the assumption anyway.

You start to make a guest list. You notice how much shorter it gets as time passes. Of course, there’s your family—but everyone is getting older, and the cake is a bit too sweet for them too. There are what friends you have left—unless they’re busy. You think about the ones you haven’t texted in months or called in years. Do they remember your birthday? Probably not. Will you remind them? No. So, it ceases to exist. Those who are still around show up for you, and you’re grateful, but you do notice the empty chairs.

You glare at balloons in the corner of the ceiling. The expectation when you make a big deal about your birthday is that you’ll put effort into decorations. How arrogant do you want to be? You should buy a cake everyone will like. You should get plates and cups in bulk, though they’ll go mostly unused by the end of the night. Make sure the colors of the balloons match the tablecloths, and the napkins, and the gift bags. Coordination is important. After a while you may realize a more ideal birthday consists of takeout, television, and a personal slice of cheesecake from the grocery store. Otherwise, you’ll wake up the next day and see the mess of celebration. Banners, balloons, and confetti overstay their welcome until the “special day” resembles all the others.

You end with blowing out the candles. You’re being watched, fire spotlighting you in a dark room full of spectators. They can see the bags under your eyes and pores on your skin illuminated in up-casted lighting. They can also see the hopefulness in your ignited eyes. As your wish touches your lips, the ridiculousness is more palpable. You no longer dream of being a millionaire or a famous artist, but of your college debt disappearing or your success in a career that will keep you solvent for a few more years. You appreciate the tradition, but a birthday is not unique in granting wishes or good fortune. The candles have never been the catalyst.

You’re old enough to realize that your birthday is just a day, and the ritual is now voluntary. Celebrate that.

Quentin Parker is from Bowie, Maryland and studies creative writing at Salisbury University. He is the Editor-in-Chief of his campus literary magazine, The Scarab. His fiction and nonfiction work has appeared or will be forthcoming in Moon City Review, The Tusculum Review, The MacGuffin, and elsewhere.