For Christmas I do gift bags for my friends and the cast, and I

Host: The scene opens in a quiet backstage dressing room, glowing with soft string lights and the warm flicker of half-melted candles on a makeup counter. Costumes hang like sleeping souls from silver hooks — sequins, silk, and velvet whispering of performances past. The faint sound of laughter seeps through the thin walls from the cast lounge, where voices blend into the gentle hum of friendship.

At the vanity sits Jeeny, tying bright ribbons around small gift bags, her hands moving with a kind of joyful concentration. Beside her stands Jack, leaning against the doorway, his usual cynical smirk softened by the sight of her careful ritual.

Jeeny: “For Christmas, I do this every year,” she said, smiling. “Gift bags for my friends and the cast — little treats, some jokes, a few keychains that say ‘Treat yo self.’ Retta said that once — she makes them for her crew too. I love that.”

Jack: “Treat yo self, huh?” he said, his voice thick with amused disbelief. “You actually buy into that kind of thing?”

Jeeny: “Why not? It’s harmless. Sweet, even. A way of saying, ‘Hey, you deserve a little joy.’”

Jack: “Joy that fits in a plastic bag and smells like peppermint lotion?”

Host: Jeeny laughed, the sound soft but full, her eyes glimmering like candlelight catching glass. She reached for another ribbon and tied it with practiced ease, the color of red against the pale gold wrapping like a blush of warmth against winter.

Jeeny: “You really think joy needs to be grand to matter? Sometimes it’s just a peppermint lotion, Jack. Or a silly keychain that reminds you not to forget yourself in the chaos.”

Jack: “That’s the problem, isn’t it? Everyone’s so obsessed with ‘self-care’ these days. It’s all candles, creams, and affirmations. But when the world’s burning, what’s the point of bubble baths?”

Jeeny: “The point,” she said, “is that you can’t pour from an empty cup. Even revolutionaries need rest. Even cynics need joy.”

Host: A silence stretched between them, filled with the faint rustle of tissue paper and the echo of distant carols from outside. The city lights beyond the frosted window flickered like a thousand promises no one remembered making.

Jack: “I don’t know,” he muttered, shifting his weight. “It all feels so… shallow. Like people are trying to buy happiness one scented candle at a time.”

Jeeny: “And what’s wrong with that? You think happiness has to be deep all the time? Maybe that’s why you never find it — you’re looking for meaning in every corner instead of just letting yourself feel it.”

Host: The candlelight danced across her face, illuminating her smile, her quiet certainty. Jack watched her, torn between amusement and the slow tug of something like longing.

Jack: “So you really think a keychain can make someone feel better?”

Jeeny: “It’s not the keychain. It’s the thought that someone cared enough to give it. It’s the laughter that follows when they text me a picture of it months later. That’s the point. Connection disguised as humor.”

Jack: “You always turn simple things into sermons.”

Jeeny: “And you always turn beautiful things into burdens.”

Host: The words hit him with the weight of truth, though her tone was gentle, not cruel. Outside, a gust of wind rattled the window, carrying the faint scent of pine and distant snow.

Jeeny: “When Retta said she gives those gifts every year, she wasn’t talking about consumerism. She was talking about community. About remembering your people. We forget how much that matters.”

Jack: “Community,” he said, tasting the word like something foreign. “You think a group of actors exchanging lotion bottles counts as community?”

Jeeny: “It’s not the lotion, Jack. It’s the ritual. The reminder that you’re not alone. That someone thought of you — even for a moment.”

Host: She handed him one of the bags. The tag read simply: For Jack — because even skeptics deserve sweetness. He stared at it, his expression unreadable.

Jack: “You made one for me?”

Jeeny: “Of course. You think I’d leave you out of the experiment?”

Jack: “Experiment?”

Jeeny: “Yes. To see if generosity can thaw cynicism.”

Jack: “Bold hypothesis.”

Jeeny: “Every good scientist tests her theories.”

Host: He turned the small bag over in his hands. Inside, he found a little black keychain engraved with three words in shiny gold: Treat yo self. For a long time, he said nothing. The fire popped behind them, and the world outside seemed to pause — the hush before snow, the breath before belief.

Jack: “You know,” he said slowly, “I don’t get gifts often.”

Jeeny: “Why not?”

Jack: “Because I never expect them.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why you should.”

Host: He looked up, met her gaze. Her eyes were steady — warm, certain — like the center of a storm that refused to destroy.

Jack: “You really believe these small things matter?”

Jeeny: “I believe small things become big things when they’re done with heart. A gift, a word, a kindness — they ripple farther than you think.”

Jack: “You sound like a holiday card.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the closest thing we have left to faith.”

Host: The laughter returned — gentle, full of light. Jack shook his head, but there was a smile now, faint but real, tugging at the edges of his guarded face.

He tucked the keychain into his pocket.

Jack: “Alright,” he said quietly. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe small things matter. But don’t expect me to start buying gift bags.”

Jeeny: “I don’t want you to buy them. I want you to believe in them.”

Host: The lights dimmed further as the last of the ribbons were tied. Outside, snow began to fall — silent, slow, the city transformed into a hushed cathedral of white.

Jack reached into one of the bags and pulled out a peppermint candy, unwrapped it, and placed it between his lips.

Jack: “Not bad,” he said.

Jeeny: “That’s the point, Jack. Life doesn’t have to be profound to be good. Sometimes, it just has to be sweet.”

Host: The camera would linger on the two of them — surrounded by paper, laughter, and candlelight — as the sound of soft holiday music drifted through the air.

And as the scene faded, the truth of Retta’s words shimmered through the stillness —

Generosity is not about grandeur.
It’s about remembrance — the small gestures that whisper, You matter.

For some, that’s a gift bag.
For others, it’s a keychain.
But for all — it is a quiet act of faith in joy itself.

To treat others is to treat yourself.
And in that exchange, the world becomes — however briefly — whole.