Christmas in L.A. is weird. There's no snow. It's not even cold.

Host: The sky over Los Angeles was a hazy, endless gold, the kind that felt too warm, too bright for December. The palm trees shimmered in the afternoon light, their shadows long and lazy across the sun-bleached sidewalks. Somewhere, far off, a radio hummed out a soft cover of Silent Night — slow, dreamy, ironic.

At a small coffee shop on Melrose Avenue, a plastic Christmas tree blinked in the corner, its lights flickering like a halfhearted promise. Fake snowflakes clung to the window, defiant against the heat. The air smelled of espresso, sunscreen, and the faint salt of the Pacific carried on the wind.

Jack sat by the window, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his grey eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. His hands wrapped around an iced coffee, condensation dripping slowly onto the table. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her latte, a little snowman drawn in the foam already melting away.

Outside, a Santa in board shorts rode by on a skateboard.

Jeeny: Smiling faintly. “Ellie Goulding once said, ‘Christmas in L.A. is weird. There’s no snow. It’s not even cold.’”

Jack: Dryly. “She’s right. It’s not Christmas. It’s July with fairy lights.”

Host: The sunlight glared off the chrome of passing cars. The city shimmered like a mirage pretending to be festive.

Jeeny: “You really think it’s that bad?”

Jack: “It’s artificial. The whole thing. Plastic trees, rented cheer, Santa sweating in a polyester suit. You can’t fake winter, Jeeny. You can’t fake that hush — that stillness that comes with snow.”

Jeeny: “You can’t fake snow, sure. But you can still feel Christmas. It’s not about temperature, Jack. It’s about tenderness.”

Jack: Snorting softly. “Tenderness? There’s nothing tender about traffic on the 405 and people fighting over parking spots at The Grove.”

Jeeny: “You always look for the cracks instead of the light.”

Jack: “Because the cracks are real.”

Jeeny: Gently. “So is the light.”

Host: The radio shifted songs — now White Christmas, sung by someone who’d clearly never seen snow. The irony lingered in the air, thin but beautiful.

Jack: “You ever notice how every Christmas song is written by people from cold places? Maybe that’s why L.A. can’t pull it off. There’s no nostalgia here. Just ambition wrapped in tinsel.”

Jeeny: “Maybe ambition’s its own kind of holiday. People come here chasing dreams, not snowflakes. That’s its own miracle.”

Jack: “You can’t unwrap a dream.”

Jeeny: “You can live inside one.”

Host: The barista wiped down the counter, humming along with the music. Outside, the sun sank lower, its light gilding the world in cinematic melancholy.

Jack: “You ever miss the cold?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. I miss the silence of snow. How it makes the world smaller, softer. But I don’t miss the loneliness.”

Jack: “Snow isn’t lonely. It’s honest. It reminds you how small you are.”

Jeeny: “And sunshine reminds you how alive you are.”

Jack: “You sound like an optimist in denial.”

Jeeny: “You sound like a pessimist in hiding.”

Host: Her words lingered, soft but sharp. Jack looked out the window at the shimmering street — palm trees lined with string lights, a boy eating ice cream under a wreath.

Jack: “You ever notice how the lights look different here? Too clean. Too bright. Like they’re trying too hard.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe they just refuse to give up, even when it doesn’t feel right. I like that. Hope shining in the wrong season.”

Jack: “Hope’s a funny word for LED lights on a palm tree.”

Jeeny: “It’s still light, Jack. It still glows.”

Host: The sun began to dip behind the skyline, bathing the café in warm amber. Shadows stretched, and the faint glitter of dusk crept in through the windows.

Jack: “I used to live back east, remember? Snowstorms, frozen windshields, actual Christmas. I’d shovel for hours just to make it to my parents’ house. And yet…” He trailed off.

Jeeny: “And yet what?”

Jack: “I don’t remember the gifts. I just remember the sound. The quiet after the snow fell. Like the whole world paused for breath.”

Jeeny: Softly. “You miss stillness.”

Jack: “Yeah. L.A. never stops moving. Even its happiness feels rehearsed.”

Jeeny: “But maybe that’s its beauty. This city doesn’t know stillness. It knows endurance. Christmas here isn’t about peace; it’s about persistence. You celebrate anyway, even when it doesn’t feel like the movies.”

Jack: “You call that beauty?”

Jeeny: “Absolutely. It’s the kind that sweats under tinsel and still smiles.”

Host: The breeze picked up, carrying the faint scent of sea salt and exhaust. A nearby street performer started playing “Silent Night” on a steel drum — the melody strange, tropical, strangely moving.

Jack: Half-smiling. “Now that’s blasphemy.”

Jeeny: “No. That’s adaptation. That’s life.”

Jack: “You think Christmas survives because people adapt it?”

Jeeny: “I think it survives because people need it. Even here. Especially here. In a city full of actors and dreamers, Christmas is the one day everyone pretends for the same reason — to feel like they belong to something bigger.”

Jack: “Pretending. There it is again.”

Jeeny: “You say pretending like it’s a sin. But sometimes pretending is how truth begins.”

Host: The last light faded. The café grew dim, lit only by the blinking tree and the soft reflection of passing headlights. Jeeny reached across the table, fingers brushing Jack’s hand.

Jeeny: “You know, I used to hate it too — Christmas here. No scarves, no frost, no breath hanging in the air. But one year, I drove to Malibu on Christmas morning. The ocean was calm, the sky pink. There was a little girl building a sandcastle and decorating it with seashells. And her mom said, ‘Careful, sweetie, the tide’s coming.’ And the girl just laughed. She said, ‘It’s okay, I’ll build another one.’”

Jack: Looking at her, quietly. “That’s… kind of perfect.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Christmas in L.A. is, Jack. You build your castle knowing the tide will come. You love anyway. You hope anyway. You celebrate in the sun and pretend it’s snow.”

Host: Her eyes caught the faint glint of the blinking lights. Jack exhaled, slowly, a small, genuine laugh breaking through his cynicism.

Jack: “You’re saying we’re all just sunburnt optimists.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. But we keep singing carols anyway.”

Jack: “Even when it’s eighty degrees.”

Jeeny: “Especially then.”

Host: The radio faded into a quiet instrumental of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. The melody hung like a sigh in the warm air. Outside, the palm trees swayed against a lavender sky, their lights beginning to flicker as dusk deepened into night.

Jack: “Maybe Ellie Goulding was right. Christmas in L.A. is weird. But maybe weird isn’t bad.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. It’s honest. It’s the kind of weird that reminds you the magic isn’t in the snow — it’s in the people who keep believing without it.”

Jack: Smiling faintly. “Believing without snow. That’s poetic.”

Jeeny: “That’s human.”

Host: The camera would pull back now — two silhouettes by the window, framed in the glow of fake snowflakes and blinking lights. Outside, the street shimmered in holiday gold, though the air was warm, the night tender, alive.

And as the city carried on — restless, bright, unsentimental — somewhere inside that café, under a plastic star and palm-tree garland, a small, quiet miracle lingered:

Faith without frost.
Hope without snow.
Christmas in L.A. — strange, shimmering, and beautifully alive.