Did you know that Christmas Day is absolutely the best day to

Host: The airport terminal gleamed beneath white fluorescent lights, sterile yet strangely beautiful — that odd blend of human departure and design. Outside, the tarmac shimmered beneath a pale winter sky, where planes lumbered toward the horizon like great mechanical birds, carrying their quiet stories into the clouds.

It was Christmas Day, but there were no carols, no glittering trees, no rush of laughter or children dragging parents through queues. Just the hum of engines, the echo of footsteps, and the rare, sacred quiet that comes when the world finally pauses — except for those still in transit.

At Gate 24, Jack sat with his coat draped over his lap, a ticket half-folded in his hand. His eyes — grey, watchful, unreadable — followed the runway lights blinking in perfect rhythm. Across from him, Jeeny sat cross-legged in the empty waiting area, a paper cup of coffee warming her fingers. Between them, a single sheet of paper rested on the armrest between chairs, creased but legible.

It read:
“Did you know that Christmas Day is absolutely the best day to fly? It is. No crowded airports and crowded planes. I always flew to Australia. That’s what Christmas was for me — a plane journey to the next tournament.” — Monica Seles

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “You know… there’s something haunting about that. Everyone else celebrates arrival, and she celebrates departure.”

Host: Her voice was low, tender — like a soft melody that somehow made the emptiness feel full.

Jack: (nodding slowly) “Yeah. It’s strange, isn’t it? Christmas — the day of belonging — and she found her peace in motion.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what made her who she was. Some people feel at home only when they’re moving.”

Jack: “The wanderer’s paradox.”

Jeeny: “Or the athlete’s.”

Jack: “Same thing, really. You spend your life chasing excellence, and home becomes the place between gates.”

Host: The intercom crackled faintly, announcing a flight to Singapore. Neither of them moved. The world outside was pale and wide, the air heavy with stillness.

Jeeny: “It’s funny, isn’t it? People think success is rooted — the house, the tree, the family photo. But for her, success was the next tournament, the next flight, the next serve.”

Jack: “And she didn’t sound bitter about it. Just… accepting.”

Jeeny: “That’s what struck me too. There’s no regret in her tone. Just truth — the kind that doesn’t need defending.”

Jack: (smiling) “Freedom often sounds like that. Calm, not loud.”

Host: He leaned back in his chair, his gaze following a plane that lifted slowly into the white sky, disappearing like an idea that didn’t need applause.

Jeeny: “You ever feel like that, Jack? Like you belong nowhere — and somehow everywhere?”

Jack: “All the time. Especially at airports. It’s like being inside the bloodstream of the world. Everything moves, but nothing stays.”

Jeeny: “That’s beautiful. And exhausting.”

Jack: “Yeah. That too.”

Host: A faint light shimmered through the glass — the sun fighting through a thin veil of cloud. The gate attendant hummed softly to herself, unaware that she was part of the quiet symphony of transit.

Jeeny: “I think what Seles was really saying is that solitude doesn’t have to be sad. She wasn’t lonely on those flights. She was peaceful. Detached. Purposeful.”

Jack: “That’s the difference between isolation and solitude — choice.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Solitude chosen becomes strength.”

Jack: “And it takes courage to choose it when the whole world tells you that happiness means being surrounded.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Especially on a day like Christmas.”

Host: The sound of a suitcase rolling echoed down the terminal — a single traveler, unseen but heard.

Jack: “You know, it’s strange. We talk about Christmas as the season of love and warmth, but for some people, it’s the only day they can breathe. Because everyone else has stopped moving.”

Jeeny: “For her, it was quiet — no crowds, no cameras, no pressure. Just sky.”

Jack: “Maybe that was her prayer.”

Jeeny: “Flight as faith.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Host: She sipped her coffee, the steam catching the soft light above her.

Jeeny: “You think people like her ever stop? The great ones, I mean.”

Jack: “No. They rest, maybe. But stopping? That’s death to them. The moment you stop chasing, you start fading.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that tragic?”

Jack: (shaking his head) “No. It’s devotion. Everyone worships something — she just worshiped motion.”

Host: The wind outside carried the sound of another jet taking off — a low, thunderous hum that trembled through the glass.

Jeeny: “I like that she didn’t dress it up. She didn’t say it was lonely or glamorous — just that it was. It’s a very honest kind of peace.”

Jack: “Honesty is rare. Especially when it’s not sentimental.”

Jeeny: “And especially when it comes to Christmas.”

Jack: (smirking) “You mean when everyone’s trying to prove joy?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. She didn’t need the ritual. Her ritual was the runway.”

Host: Jeeny leaned her head against the back of her chair, watching the sky. For a moment, the silence between them wasn’t empty — it was vast.

Jeeny: “You know, I used to think flight was an escape. But maybe it’s not about leaving — maybe it’s about searching.”

Jack: “Searching for what?”

Jeeny: (after a pause) “Stillness — the kind that only comes at 35,000 feet when you’re too far up for the world to touch you.”

Jack: “That’s beautiful, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “That’s human, Jack.”

Host: The PA system announced boarding for Sydney — the same flight number printed faintly on Jack’s ticket. He looked at it for a long moment, then smiled.

Jack: “I guess this is my turn to disappear for a while.”

Jeeny: “Christmas in the sky, then?”

Jack: “Maybe that’s where peace really is — somewhere above the noise.”

Jeeny: “Say hi to the clouds for me.”

Jack: (grinning) “Always.”

Host: He stood, slung his coat over his shoulder, and started toward the gate. She watched him go, her eyes reflecting the movement — one human leaving, one staying, both belonging to the same quiet faith of travelers.

And as the engines roared to life outside, Monica Seles’s words seemed to echo softly through the glass and time itself:

that peace does not always wait at home,
that faith sometimes takes the form of flight,
and that to be truly free
is to find stillness not in the hearth,
but in the sky.

The plane lifted,
the light broke through the clouds,
and for one fleeting, beautiful moment,
Christmas became exactly what she said it was —
a journey,
not a destination.