Christmas makes me happy no matter what time of year it comes

Host: The town was wrapped in snow — the kind that glows under streetlights, falling slowly, lazily, as if even winter had decided to move gently tonight. Every window downtown shimmered with light, every shop hummed with faint carols that seemed to drift right out into the cold.

But this wasn’t Christmas Eve. It was March.

Inside a quiet diner off the main road, a little tree still stood in the corner — its tinsel crooked, a few ornaments missing. The neon sign outside flickered between “OPEN” and “OPE,” and inside, the smell of coffee and cinnamon filled the air.

Jack sat in his usual booth, a steaming cup in front of him, a newspaper folded beside it. He wasn’t reading. Just staring.

Jeeny walked in, brushing the snow off her coat, her cheeks flushed from the cold. She noticed the tree, then noticed him — and smiled the kind of smile that said You again?

Jeeny: “You know, it’s March. The tree’s still up.”

Jack: “Yeah. I told Lou to leave it.”

Jeeny: “You told Lou?”

Jack: “He was going to take it down after New Year’s. I said it made the place feel alive.”

Jeeny: (laughs) “Alive? It’s got three lights left.”

Jack: “Three’s more than none.”

Host: Jeeny sat across from him, pulling her gloves off slowly, her eyes catching the soft reflection of the old lights.

Jeeny: “Bryan White once said, ‘Christmas makes me happy no matter what time of year it comes around.’”

Jack: “Yeah? I like that guy already.”

Jeeny: “Of course you do. You’ve basically turned seasonal cheer into a personality trait.”

Jack: “Maybe I just like remembering a time when people smiled without needing a reason.”

Jeeny: “You sound like a man auditioning for nostalgia.”

Jack: “Better than auditioning for cynicism.”

Host: The diner door chimed as an old couple walked out, bundled, laughing, the kind of easy laughter that comes from years of surviving everything together. The sound followed them into the cold, leaving behind an emptiness that wasn’t sad — just peaceful.

Jeeny: “You really love Christmas, don’t you?”

Jack: “It’s not Christmas I love. It’s what it does to people. For a few weeks, the world slows down. People look each other in the eye. Even the mean ones remember they used to be kind.”

Jeeny: “And then January comes, and it’s back to honking horns and overdue bills.”

Jack: “Yeah. But for a while, we get to pretend the world’s still capable of softness.”

Jeeny: “Pretend?”

Jack: “Sometimes pretending’s the only way to remember what’s possible.”

Host: Jeeny leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand, her eyes glinting like something between challenge and affection.

Jeeny: “You really think a few lights and a tree can make people better?”

Jack: “Not better. Just… more human. You ever notice how people forgive more easily in December? How strangers hold doors, how you see kids waving at Santas like they believe again?”

Jeeny: “I notice how lonely people get too. The ones who don’t have anyone. The way they sit in corners and pretend the noise doesn’t hurt.”

Jack: “Yeah. I see them too. But even then, they still come out. They still show up. There’s something about this season that makes people want to belong again — even if it breaks them a little.”

Host: The jukebox in the corner clicked and started playing an old tune — one of those slow, sentimental songs that sound like home.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder if that’s why we can’t let it go? The lights, the songs, the rituals. Maybe we’re all just looking for proof that joy isn’t temporary.”

Jack: “Maybe joy’s not the point.”

Jeeny: “Then what is?”

Jack: “Hope. Joy’s fleeting. Hope’s stubborn.”

Jeeny: “You always have to turn sentiment into philosophy, don’t you?”

Jack: “It’s how I survive sentiment.”

Host: She laughed, softly. Outside, a car passed, its headlights gliding across the window like a memory in motion.

Jeeny: “You ever celebrate Christmas alone, Jack?”

Jack: “Every year.”

Jeeny: “And that doesn’t bother you?”

Jack: “Used to. Now I kind of like it. Gives me time to remember people. My parents. The friends I lost touch with. It’s not about having company. It’s about not forgetting.”

Jeeny: “That’s… sad.”

Jack: “No. That’s honest.”

Host: The snow outside thickened, the flakes now larger, slower — like tiny confessions falling from the sky.

Jeeny: “I used to hate Christmas,” she said quietly. “All that forced happiness. All that pretending everything’s okay.”

Jack: “What changed?”

Jeeny: “One year I spent it volunteering at a shelter. Watched a kid unwrap a blanket like it was a miracle. I realized happiness isn’t fake. It’s fragile. That’s why it feels forced — because we’re scared to touch it too long.”

Jack: “Yeah.” (smiles faintly) “You start to realize Christmas isn’t about gifts. It’s about relief.”

Jeeny: “Relief?”

Jack: “That, for one night, you can stop pretending to be strong.”

Host: The neon light outside flickered again. OPE. OPEN. OPE.

The rhythm of imperfection.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe Bryan White had it right. Maybe Christmas isn’t about a date. Maybe it’s about remembering that gentleness is still allowed — in March, or July, or whenever you decide you need it.”

Jack: “You sound like a Hallmark card.”

Jeeny: “Maybe Hallmark cards sound like truth when you say them right.”

Jack: “Touché.”

Host: The clock behind the counter ticked past midnight. The diner was empty now, except for them — two people sitting in a warm pocket of time while the rest of the world slept.

Jeeny: “You going to keep that tree up all year?”

Jack: “Maybe. Might add some Easter eggs to it next month.”

Jeeny: “You’re impossible.”

Jack: “No, just consistent.”

Jeeny: “Then promise me something.”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “When the lights finally burn out, don’t throw it away. Keep it. Let it remind you what it means to care, even when the world’s forgotten how.”

Jack: (quietly) “Deal.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — wide shot — the two of them framed by the old tree, the glow of the neon, and the soft dance of snow beyond the window.

The world outside was cold and infinite. But inside the diner, the air was golden.

Two cups of coffee.
One stubborn light.
A quiet night pretending to be Christmas — and somehow, succeeding.

Host: Because sometimes, joy doesn’t care about calendars.
It just waits — patient, forgiving —
for someone to notice it again.