Everybody loves a good Christmas song if you do it right.

Host: The first snow of the season fell that night — not heavy, but soft and deliberate, like the sky had decided to hum instead of shout. The town square was quiet except for the faint sound of bells from a distant church, and the air smelled of pine, cinnamon, and something quietly sacred.

Inside the small coffee shop on the corner, lights twinkled in the windows, a strand of cheap tinsel drooping above the counter. A half-decorated tree leaned near the door — its top missing a star.

Jack sat at a back table, hands wrapped around a chipped mug, his grey eyes distant. Jeeny stood beside the counter, adjusting a crooked ornament, humming under her breath — a tune that could’ve been anything from Mariah Carey to melancholy.

The radio crackled softly, and then — as if on cue — Sabrina Carpenter’s voice spilled through the static, light and sweet: “Everybody loves a good Christmas song if you do it right.”

Jeeny turned, smiling faintly.

Jeeny: “You know, that’s true. A good Christmas song — when it’s done right — it’s not about snow or bells or even Christmas. It’s about remembering who we are when the world feels kind again.”

Jack: (smirks, voice low) “Kind? That’s generous. I think it’s about nostalgia. People want to feel something they lost — or maybe never had. Wrap it in sleigh bells and a major chord, and it feels like hope.”

Host: The steam from Jack’s cup curled upward like a fragile ghost. Outside, a few kids ran past, laughing, their boots splashing through slush. The world beyond the glass seemed warmer than the one inside his chest.

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who forgot what joy feels like.”

Jack: “Joy’s overrated. It’s a seasonal illusion. People sing about peace for two weeks, then go back to ignoring each other. Christmas songs? They’re just temporary forgiveness.”

Jeeny: “Or temporary grace. Which, for some people, is all they need to keep going.”

Host: Her voice was quiet but edged with something fierce — that kind of conviction that sounds almost like prayer. Jack’s eyes flicked toward her, a mixture of challenge and curiosity.

Jack: “Grace? From a pop song?”

Jeeny: “Why not? Music can hold more truth than a sermon if you let it. Think about it — a song hits, and suddenly, strangers hum the same tune. That’s connection. That’s human.”

Jack: (leans back) “Connection? You think people singing ‘Jingle Bells’ together in a supermarket are connected?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Maybe not deeply, but for a moment, they share a rhythm. They feel less alone. Isn’t that what we’re all looking for, Jack?”

Host: A pause. The fireplace behind the counter crackled, sending faint shadows dancing across the floor. The snow outside thickened, blurring the outlines of the streetlamps.

Jack: “When I was a kid, Christmas meant noise — my dad yelling, my mom trying to pretend it didn’t hurt. The only song I remember was the hum of the refrigerator.”

Jeeny: (softly) “And yet you’re here. Drinking hot chocolate. Sitting under lights. Listening.”

Jack: (glances down) “Maybe I’m just cold.”

Jeeny: “No. You’re still searching for the warmth you never got.”

Host: The tension in the room shifted, not toward conflict, but toward confession. The kind of silence that doesn’t demand an answer — it just asks you to feel.

Jeeny walked toward him, the tiny bells on her scarf jingling softly.

Jeeny: “You know why people love Christmas songs, Jack? Because they remind us that joy is possible. Even if it’s artificial, even if it’s fleeting — it proves that we still know how to feel.”

Jack: (gruffly) “I don’t need a song to tell me how to feel.”

Jeeny: “No. But sometimes you need one to remember that you can.”

Host: Her words landed like snow — gentle, but impossible to ignore. Jack stared into his mug, watching the faint ripples of the chocolate’s surface, as if the truth might be hiding there.

Jack: “You ever notice how all the best Christmas songs sound a little sad? Even the happy ones. They’ve got that ache underneath — like they know joy can’t last.”

Jeeny: “That’s what makes them honest. Real joy always carries a shadow of loss. Maybe that’s why people sing louder — to keep the dark from echoing.”

Host: Outside, the wind brushed past the window, rattling the wreath that hung crooked on the glass. A small child stopped and pressed his mittened hand against the pane, staring in with wide eyes, before being pulled away by his mother.

Jack followed the moment with his gaze, his expression softening.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the song’s not about Christmas at all. Maybe it’s about remembering what it felt like before we stopped believing things could get better.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why I love this season. It gives us permission to believe again — even just for a song’s length.”

Host: The radio shifted to another tune — faint piano, a voice that sounded like someone remembering love from another lifetime.

Jeeny: “You know, when Sabrina said that — about doing it right — she wasn’t talking about perfection. She meant sincerity. Do it with heart, or don’t do it at all.”

Jack: “You really think sincerity’s enough to change how people see the world?”

Jeeny: “It changed you, didn’t it? You’ve been sitting here pretending you hate Christmas for twenty minutes, but you haven’t left.”

Jack: (laughs quietly) “Maybe I just like the company.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you’re starting to understand it — that presence itself is the song. You don’t have to sing it; you just have to show up.”

Host: Her smile warmed the space like the first light of morning. The fireplace flared slightly, the flame catching new oxygen, glowing brighter.

Jack: “You think it’s possible — to do it right? To make something that actually makes people feel again?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But not by trying to be clever. You do it by being true. The best songs — the best moments — they’re honest. You can’t fake heart.”

Host: The snow outside had thickened now, a soft blanket covering the streets, muting the world. The clock above the counter ticked quietly toward midnight.

Jack: “You know, maybe that’s what I’ve been missing. I’ve been chasing control — precision — when what people want is warmth.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not about hitting the perfect note. It’s about meaning every imperfect one.”

Host: The lights flickered slightly, dimmed, then steadied. A few late-night stragglers entered, shaking snow from their coats, laughter spilling in with them. The room seemed to come alive again — chatter, music, the shared hum of being human together.

Jack: (smiling) “You know, Jeeny, you might’ve just convinced me to write a Christmas song.”

Jeeny: “Good. Just promise me one thing — when you write it, don’t write it for the charts. Write it for the lonely people sitting in coffee shops trying to remember what hope feels like.”

Jack: (nods slowly) “I can do that.”

Host: She reached across the table, her hand brushing his — light, unspoken, enough. The radio faded into a soft, instrumental lullaby.

Outside, the snow continued to fall — steady, forgiving, infinite.

The camera would linger there: on the two of them, framed by twinkling lights and the hush of the season. The world, for once, felt gentle — fragile but kind.

And as the screen faded to black, the words seemed to hang in the air like a final lyric:

That everybody loves a good Christmas song —
if you do it right.

And doing it right,
perhaps,
just means remembering how to love.