Christmas is a rare occasion when we are reminded that we have

Host: The snow fell in slow, silent flakes, each one catching the light from the streetlamps like a tiny spark of memory. The city had fallen into that peculiar Christmas hush—a kind of peace that felt borrowed, fragile, almost artificial, like the thin paper halo of a plastic angel. Inside a small café, warm light pooled against the frosted windows, and the air smelled faintly of coffee, pine, and loneliness.

Jack sat by the window, a half-empty mug before him, his grey eyes reflecting the snowlight. Jeeny entered quietly, brushing flakes from her coat, her cheeks flushed from the cold. They had met here every year—same night, same table. But tonight, the conversation was different.

The radio behind the counter played a soft carol, almost lost beneath the hum of the espresso machine. Then the Host’s voice, distant but tender, filled the space like a camera lens closing in on the stillness:

Host: “Julian Baggini once wrote that Christmas is a rare occasion when we are reminded that we have obligations to people we did not choose to be related to, and that love is not just a spontaneous feeling but something we sometimes really have to work at, with people we may not even much like. And as the snow fell that evening, two souls sat across from each other, trying to decide whether love was a duty, or a gift.”

Jeeny: “Do you ever think he’s right, Jack? That maybe we’ve made love too romantic, too much about what feels easy? Christmas… it’s the one time we’re forced to care, even when we don’t want to.”

Jack: Dryly. “You mean forced to pretend we care. To smile, to give gifts, to tolerate people we’d rather never see again. Yeah, I get it. The annual ritual of hypocrisy.”

Host: The steam rose between them, curling like a veil—half warmth, half distance. Jeeny’s hands tightened around her cup, her voice soft, but her eyes fierce.

Jeeny: “You call it hypocrisy. I call it effort. Maybe that’s what Baggini meant—love isn’t always about liking, it’s about showing up anyway. Even when it’s hard.”

Jack: “Love shouldn’t have to be work, Jeeny. That’s what makes it real—the fact that it just happens, that it’s natural. The moment it becomes an obligation, it stops being love.”

Jeeny: “Tell that to the parents caring for a child who screams through the night. Or to the nurse sitting beside a dying stranger on Christmas Eve. You think their love is spontaneous? No—it’s discipline, it’s choice. It’s the kind of love that costs you something.”

Host: Outside, a church bell began to chime, its sound soft and melancholic. The streetlight cast their shadows against the wall, two shapes merging and breaking as the flame of the candle flickered between them.

Jack: Leaning back. “So you think we should just keep pretending we care? Keep showing up at tables we hate, with people who drain us, just because it’s the ‘right thing’?”

Jeeny: “No. I think we should remember that love isn’t about how we feel—it’s about what we do. Feelings fade. But the act of kindness, the decision to forgive, the courage to try—that’s what keeps love alive.”

Jack: Scoffing. “That sounds noble. But it’s just guilt in fancy wrapping paper. We’re trained to sacrifice, to suppress, to put others first, even when it kills us. That’s not love—that’s martyrdom.”

Jeeny: “And yet, without that sacrifice, what are we? Consumers? Spectators? We spend the year chasing pleasure, and one night in December, we’re reminded that life isn’t about what we get, but what we give. Even to those who don’t deserve it.”

Host: The tension in the air thickened, like the storm building outside. Snow pressed harder against the glass, muffling the world. Inside, time seemed to pause, held between resentment and grace.

Jack: “You really think we owe something to people we didn’t choose? To the uncle who never listened, the mother who judged, the brother who forgot your birthday three years in a row?”

Jeeny: Quietly. “Yes. Because they remind us that love isn’t a transaction. It’s not earned—it’s given. Even when it’s not reciprocated. Especially then.”

Jack: “You make it sound like suffering is a virtue.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is, sometimes. Think of all the stories—the ones that really moved the world. They weren’t written in comfort. They were written in struggle. In the act of loving the unlovable.”

Host: A car passed, its headlights flashing briefly across their faces, revealing a quiet ache behind Jack’s eyes. He looked away, toward the window, watching a family across the street—children laughing, a father lifting gifts from the trunk, a mother waving at the window, her smile tired but tender.

Jack: Softly. “You know… I used to love Christmas. Before it became about what I’d lost.”

Jeeny: Her voice gentle now. “And yet you’re here, every year, watching the snow, pretending you don’t care. That’s the kind of love I’m talking about, Jack. You still show up. Even when it hurts.”

Host: His fingers trembled slightly as he set his cup down. The candlelight shimmered on the table, trembling like a pulse.

Jack: “Maybe I come here because this is the only place where it still feels honest. No fake smiles, no forced cheer. Just… two people, talking.”

Jeeny: “And isn’t that what Christmas should be? Connection, even through pain. Maybe that’s why it still matters—because for one night, the world slows down enough for us to see each other again.”

Host: The music in the café shifted—Nat King Cole’s “The Christmas Song” played faintly, its melody weaving through their silence. The moment felt heavy, yet gentle, as though the air itself were listening.

Jeeny: “Love isn’t just for the ones we choose, Jack. It’s for the ones who test us. The ones who teach us patience, forgiveness, humility. That’s what makes it real.”

Jack: “And when it fails?”

Jeeny: “Then we try again. That’s the work Baggini talked about. It’s not supposed to be easy. But that’s what makes it holy.”

Host: For a long moment, neither spoke. The snow continued its slow descent, blanketing the city in a fragile silence. Jack reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, wrinkled card—a Christmas card he hadn’t sent.

Jack: “It’s for my sister. Haven’t spoken to her in years.”

Jeeny: “You should send it.”

Jack: “She won’t care.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But maybe you will.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked—a small, steady heartbeat against the hush of falling snow. Jack looked at the card, then at Jeeny, and something in his eyes softened—not forgiveness, not yet, but readiness.

Jack: “You really believe love is a choice, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “Every time. Especially when it doesn’t feel like one.”

Host: The snow outside began to ease, the storm breaking into a soft drizzle of light. Jack smiled faintly, the first real smile in months.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the real miracle of Christmas. Not angels, not stars. Just… people trying again.”

Jeeny: Nods. “Exactly. Love as a practice, not a feeling.”

Host: The lights dimmed, the carol faded, and the café fell into a peaceful hush. Outside, the world gleamed under a new blanket of snow—pure, forgiving, and still.

Jeeny stood, pulling her scarf tight, while Jack stayed seated, staring at the card in his hands.

Then, slowly, he stood too.

They walked out together, into the white silence, their footsteps side by side.

And as they disappeared down the street, the Host whispered one final truth, soft as snow:

“Love is not what we find. It’s what we keep choosing—especially when it feels impossible to.”