Christmas is cheery for some people and depressing for others.

Host: The snow was falling in slow, deliberate flakes, like ash from a quiet fireplace in the sky. The city was wrapped in lights — windows glowed, trees shimmered, and somewhere a faint choir sang from a nearby church. But here, in a small apartment above a dimly lit street, the only sound was the crackle of a worn-out record player and the low hum of silence between two people.

Jack sat on the sofa, a half-empty glass of whiskey in his hand. His eyes, grey and distant, were fixed on the window, watching the snow without really seeing it. Across from him, Jeeny sat cross-legged on the floor, stringing a few old ornaments together with red thread. The room was dim — one strand of Christmas lights blinked inconsistently, casting fleeting bursts of color across their faces.

The record hissed, and through the static, Mark Kozelek’s voice floated softly: “Christmas is cheery for some people and depressing for others.”

Jack: (dryly) “Yeah. And some of us are just stuck somewhere in between — too numb to be either.”

Jeeny: (without looking up) “That’s still a feeling, Jack. Numbness. It’s like a bruise. Proof that something hit you once.”

Host: The light flickered, catching the faint sheen of tears in her eyes that never quite fell. Jack let out a low laugh, bitter but not unkind.

Jack: “I don’t get it, Jeeny. Every year people pour their hearts into this—” (gestures toward the blinking lights) “—this ritual of forced cheer. Shopping, carols, fake snow in plastic domes. Then they go home, cry into their wine, and call it tradition.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the beauty of it. That contradiction. Joy and sorrow sitting at the same table. It’s the only time of year people actually admit they feel something.”

Host: Outside, a group of children ran past, their laughter spilling through the cold air, echoing faintly through the window. It was the kind of sound that made the world seem lighter — but only from a distance.

Jack: “You know what I think Christmas really is? It’s a mirror. Some people see their blessings, others see what’s missing. The lights just make the shadows sharper.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Maybe. But at least it’s light. Most of the year we walk in darkness pretending we’re fine. December just makes the pretending harder.”

Host: She reached for a red ornament — a cracked glass heart that caught the glow of the Christmas lights, its fracture glinting like a scar.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how people remember pain more vividly around this time? Old loves, dead relatives, broken promises — they all come back with the carols.”

Jack: “Because sentimentality’s the last surviving religion. You can’t pray anymore, but you can still listen to Bing Crosby and feel something close to faith.”

Host: His voice carried both mockery and melancholy — like someone who had long since stopped believing, but still missed the comfort of belief.

Jeeny: “Maybe faith isn’t gone, Jack. Maybe it just changed its shape. Maybe now it hides in the way people wrap gifts they can’t afford, or the way a mother stays up till 2 a.m. sewing a doll’s dress. That’s still faith — in love, in kindness, in trying.”

Jack: “Trying. Yeah. That’s the saddest word of all, isn’t it?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s the bravest.”

Host: The snow outside thickened, softening the edges of the city. Car horns and chatter were muffled beneath the blanket of white, and for a moment the world seemed fragile — fragile but still.

Jack: (leans forward, voice low) “You know, when I was a kid, I used to wait by the window every Christmas Eve. My dad promised he’d come back one year. I stopped waiting when I was ten. I think that’s when Christmas died for me.”

Jeeny: (gently) “It didn’t die. It just changed. Like you did.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, tender but heavy. The old record skipped once, then resumed — the sound of a man’s voice whispering truths wrapped in music.

Jack: “You ever feel like the whole world’s split in two around the holidays? The glowing side that sings, and the silent side that watches.”

Jeeny: “I live on the silent side, Jack. But that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the song.”

Host: She smiled faintly, her hands still, the red thread dangling between her fingers like a broken connection.

Jeeny: “You know what Kozelek meant, I think? That Christmas isn’t good or bad — it’s just a stage. And we all play our parts. Some people laugh, some people ache, but all of us are trying to touch something real for once.”

Jack: “And then January comes, and we go back to pretending.”

Jeeny: “Of course. Because pretending is easier than feeling. But for one night a year, the world lets itself remember — the warmth, the loss, the love. That’s something, isn’t it?”

Host: The light from the window flickered as a car passed below, and for a moment their faces were illuminated — his marked by weariness, hers by tender defiance.

Jack: “You always find beauty in sadness, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “No. I find truth in it. Beauty’s the byproduct.”

Host: A small silence followed — comfortable this time. The snow outside thickened, the world beyond the glass turning into an endless white.

Jack: “You think maybe that’s why people decorate everything this time of year? To make their grief look festive?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But maybe it’s also to remind themselves that light doesn’t stop existing just because you’re sad.”

Jack: (after a pause) “You sound like someone who still believes.”

Jeeny: “I do. Not in miracles. Just in small mercies. A warm meal. A phone call. A quiet night like this. The world’s made of those things.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked toward midnight. The record ended, leaving only the faint static whisper of its empty groove. Jeeny rose and walked to the window, pressing her palm against the cold glass, watching the snow fall endlessly.

Jack: “You know… maybe you’re right. Maybe Christmas isn’t dead. Maybe it’s just… quieter now.”

Jeeny: (turning to him) “Then let it be quiet. Let it be human. Not cheery, not tragic — just honest.”

Host: She crossed the room and sat beside him, their shoulders brushing. The faint glow of the lights colored their faces red, green, gold — shifting like the emotions they never quite said aloud.

For a long moment, they simply sat — two figures in a small room, wrapped not in joy or sorrow, but something in between: the stillness of understanding.

Jack: (softly) “Christmas is cheery for some people, depressing for others…”

Jeeny: “…and healing, maybe, for the few who finally stop pretending.”

Host: The camera would linger — the snow falling endlessly outside, the broken string of lights blinking faintly on. The record turned in silence, the needle tracing circles on nothing.

And there, in the hush between laughter and longing, between the cheerful and the depressed, something quietly beautiful remained —
a fragile kind of peace, born not from joy, but from the courage to feel.