When Mid-Autumn feels empty — you're not broken, there's just no one setting the table

That afternoon the office handed out mooncakes. Everyone crowded together, holding up red boxes for photos, laughter mixing with the click of phone cameras. He held his own box. Heavy in the hand, weightless everywhere else.

When he was small, Mid-Autumn belonged to his parents. They handled the feast, the lantern, even the part where he got to be happy. Now there are cakes, lanterns, more than enough. And still it isn't fun. The box sat on his desk until evening, ribbon still tied. He wasn't short on mooncakes. He was short on someone to set the table.

On the way home he walked a whole street of lanterns with his eyes on his phone, wondering if it was wrong to feel nothing at his age. Then he remembered those old full-moon nights: after the guests left, his mother sat alone washing a stack of bowls under a single bulb. She wasn't excited either. She just made sure he was.

On the night of the full moon he bought a single mooncake and carried it back to his rented room. His phone stayed quiet. No one called, no one set anything out. He caught himself in the mirror and understood: the grown-up from all those childhood festivals was him now. He brewed a pot of tea, set out three cups, and called his two closest friends.

No one sets the table for me anymore. So I'll set it for my friends.

This year, if no one sets the table for you — who will you set it for?