I hate Christmas, really. I don't really give presents away or

Host: The city was drenched in neon and snow, a kind of electric melancholy that wrapped around the streets like an old song. The windows of the bar were fogged, the air inside thick with smoke, laughter, and the faint sound of jazz leaking from a worn speaker. It was Christmas Eve, but the place felt more like a refuge for those who’d missed the train to joy.

Jack sat near the window, a glass of whiskey glinting in the dim light. His eyes, cold and gray, watched the people rush by — arms full of packages, faces bright with the fever of giving. Across from him, Jeeny cradled a mug of coffee, steam rising like a ghost between them.

Jeeny: “You look like you’re about to declare war on the holiday spirit, Jack.”

Jack: “I already have, Jeeny. I hate Christmas, really. I don’t give presents, I don’t expect any. The whole thing’s a performance.”

Host: Her eyebrows lifted, her voice soft, but her eyes sharp — the kind of look that could cut through smoke and pretenses.

Jeeny: “A performance? Maybe. But even performances can mean something. People need a reason to feel close, even if it’s just once a year.”

Jack: “That’s the problem, isn’t it? One day of pretend kindness to cancel out a year of indifference. It’s like putting icing on moldy bread and calling it a cake.”

Host: The jazz crackled. Outside, a man in a red scarf stumbled through the snow, carrying a tree too big for one person. Inside, the bar glowed like a cigarette in the dark.

Jeeny: “You think people are that shallow? That every act of giving is a lie?”

Jack: “Not a lie. Just... commerce in disguise. You buy a gift, you measure your care by a price tag, and then you post it for the world to applaud. It’s consumerism wrapped in tinsel.”

Jeeny: “You sound like one of those writers who forgot that humans are still human, even when they’re messy. People buy gifts because they’re trying, Jack. They’re searching for a way to express what words can’t.”

Jack: “That’s lazy. If you can’t say it, maybe you don’t mean it.”

Host: The tension settled between them like ash. A bartender changed the song — the old record now played “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” The melody hung in the air, fragile as glass.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder why that song still hurts, Jack? It’s not because it’s about presents. It’s about missing people. About hope that’s barely breathing. Even the cynics can’t escape that.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s why I hate it. It forces people to pretend they’re happy, when half of them are lonely. Christmas just magnifies what’s missing.”

Host: Jeeny looked at him — not with pity, but with recognition. The coffee in her hands had cooled, the steam gone, leaving only the scent of bitterness and regret.

Jeeny: “I think you just said it, Jack. It’s not the holiday you hate. It’s the emptiness that echoes louder when everyone else is celebrating.”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe I just refuse to buy into the illusion. I’ve seen too much fake joy, Jeeny. I’ve watched people smile through their teeth, hug out of habit, pretend to forgive because the calendar says they should.”

Jeeny: “And yet, that’s still beautiful to me. Even if it’s imperfect. It’s a struggle — a human one. Do you remember the Christmas Truce of 1914? Soldiers stopped fighting for one night. They sang, shared cigarettes, even played football in the mud. That wasn’t commerce, Jack. That was grace, in the middle of madness.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. He looked down at his hands, the veins visible, the fingers still. Outside, the snow thickened, the world turning white and silent.

Jack: “Yeah. I’ve read about that. But it didn’t last, did it? The next day, they were killing each other again. That’s what humanity does. We pause, we sing, we pretend we’re better — then we go back to destroying everything.”

Jeeny: “But for that night, Jack, they weren’t. And that means something. Even if it’s just a moment — a crack in the darkness where light gets through.”

Host: The music faded into silence, the record ending with a scratch. The bartender didn’t move to replace it. The only sound now was the whisper of the wind pressing against the windowpane.

Jack: “You always find the light, don’t you? Even in the dirtiest corners.”

Jeeny: “Someone has to. Otherwise we’ll all drown in our own disillusionment. You think you’re protecting yourself from disappointment, Jack, but maybe you’re just starving yourself of connection.”

Jack: “Connection? That’s a beautiful word that falls apart when you look too close. You connect, you care, and then one day they leave, or lie, or forget. I’ve learned to expect less — and Christmas just reminds me why.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes softened, her voice a whisper now.

Jeeny: “So it’s not that you don’t care. It’s that you once did.”

Host: Jack looked away. The reflection of the lights on the glass danced across his face, fracturing his expression into a mosaic of regret and defense.

Jack: “Maybe. I used to believe in the magic. The tree, the lights, the songs — all of it. Until I realized it was just temporary. Joy on loan. The minute the decorations come down, people go back to being who they really are.”

Jeeny: “But that’s what makes it precious — that it’s temporary. Like a sunset. It ends, but it means something because it does.”

Host: The room seemed to hold its breath. Even the bartender paused, leaning on the counter, listening without meaning to.

Jack: “You’re saying hope is worth it even if it dies every year?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because it returns. That’s what Christmas really is, Jack — not gifts, not pretending. It’s the resurrection of hope, even after everything else fails.”

Host: Jack laughed, but it was a quiet, broken sound, like a match snapping in the cold.

Jack: “You make it sound like a miracle.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Not the kind in churches or songs, but the kind that happens when someone still tries, even after they’ve stopped believing.”

Host: For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The bar felt suspended — a snow globe of silence, light, and unspoken truths.

Then Jack reached for his wallet, pulled out a bill, and set it under the glass.

Jack: “Maybe I’ll try, then. Not for the holiday. For the moment.”

Jeeny: “That’s all it ever was, Jack. A moment.”

Host: She smiled, a gentle, tired smile that seemed to warm the coldest corners of the room. He looked at her, eyes softer, the steel of his gaze melting just a little.

Outside, the snow kept falling, covering the city in a quiet, forgiving white. The lights of Christmas reflected in the glass, and for a brief, fragile moment, it was enough.