The man looks down at the cake in front him. Three lonely flames flicker, reaching for each other.

“Eventually, they stop counting your age with candles,” he thinks to himself.

Not that it matters. He cares less about his birthday with each passing year. Plus, 41 isn’t exactly a milestone.

Same shit, different age. No need to make a fuss, no need for presents, and definitely no reason to celebrate.

That’s how he sees it, at least. Because he doesn’t feel worthy of celebration.

He beats himself up on his birthday, you see, ruminating over past mistakes and dreams passed by—what if and what could have been.

He tallies his last turn of the sun.

No freelance work, no book written or album recorded, and no significant career growth. On top of that, he still smokes pot, still hits sleep on his alarm, and still makes excuses.

No wonder he doesn’t finish what he starts. Or doesn’t start sooner. Or doesn’t start at all.

“Make a wish,” they say.

He looks up at the happy faces. His friends, his family, his partner. There’s love in their eyes and belief in their hearts.

It dawns on him: he’s surrounded by four decades’ worth of great memories with great people.

He’s surrounded by trust and support.

He’s surrounded by success, really.

He can wish for better habits and stronger discipline. He can wish to be the best version of himself, with more talent and fewer regrets.

What he wishes for is to be content. To enjoy what he has for as long as he has it. To enjoy the ride while he rides on it.

He smiles before blowing out the candles.

“Everything is as it should be—the best of my life is in front of me.”