I love giving gifts. It's almost like I don't open my gifts

Host: The snow outside drifted in soft, silver flakes, blanketing the city in a quiet, enchanted stillness. Inside a small apartment above a corner bookshop, warm light spilled from a string of mismatched bulbs, flickering against the frosted windowpane. The fireplace cracked gently, painting the walls in shades of amber and shadow.

It was three days after Christmas. Empty boxes, wrapping paper, and stray ribbons lay scattered like memories across the floor. The faint sound of a record player — an old jazz version of Silent Night — floated through the room.

Jack sat by the window, legs stretched, coffee mug steaming beside him. Jeeny knelt by the tree, carefully tucking a small, wrapped box under its lowest branch. Her eyes shimmered with quiet satisfaction, though the tree lights had begun to dim.

Jeeny: “Mariah Carey once said, ‘I love giving gifts. It’s almost like I don’t open my gifts until, like, three days after Christmas, ’cause I want to give everyone else their presents.’”
She looked up, smiling. “I get that.”

Jack: “Of course you do.”
He chuckled, his voice low and teasing. “You’re the kind who probably gives away the gift before you even wrap it.”

Host: Jeeny threw him a mock glare, her hair catching the firelight like ink under gold. She sat back on her heels, her expression softening.

Jeeny: “Maybe. But there’s something… beautiful about it. Watching someone’s eyes light up when they open something you picked for them. It’s like — for a moment — you get to see joy appear out of nothing.”

Jack: “Joy’s an expensive currency, Jeeny. You keep giving it away, and you end up broke.”

Host: His words hung in the air, not harsh but heavy, shaped by a weariness that had grown roots. Jeeny tilted her head, studying him.

Jeeny: “You don’t believe in generosity anymore, do you?”

Jack: “I believe in transaction. Every gift comes with an expectation — gratitude, attention, sometimes love. Even when we pretend it doesn’t.”

Jeeny: “That’s not true.”

Jack: “Isn’t it? Think about it. You give someone a present — what’s the first thing you feel when they don’t seem moved by it?”

Host: Jeeny hesitated, her fingers twisting a loose ribbon. The fire popped, sending a tiny shower of sparks upward.

Jeeny: “Disappointment, maybe. But that doesn’t mean the gift wasn’t genuine. It just means I hoped it would mean something. That’s… human.”

Jack: “Exactly. Even love wants proof of its own existence.”

Jeeny: “But that doesn’t make it false, Jack. It just makes it tender.”

Host: She rose, walking to the window, her reflection merging with the falling snow outside. The streets below glowed with soft light, distant laughter echoing from somewhere down the block.

Jeeny: “When I was little, I used to wait until everyone else had opened their gifts before touching mine. My mom would laugh and say, ‘You act like the magic’s in everyone else’s wrapping paper.’ But she didn’t understand — the magic was in everyone else’s smiles.”

Jack: “And what about your smile?”

Jeeny: “It came from theirs.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His grey eyes softened, the earlier edge fading. The room was quiet except for the soft crackle of the fire and the whisper of snow against glass.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, I hated Christmas. My father would work double shifts, and my mother — she’d make excuses about why Santa didn’t stop by. Said the sleigh broke down. Said he ran out of time.”

Jeeny: “That must’ve been hard.”

Jack: “Not really. It just taught me early — gifts are for the ones who already have enough to give back.”

Jeeny: “That’s not true.”

Host: Her voice wavered — not from pity, but conviction. She moved closer, kneeling in front of him. The tree lights blinked weakly, painting her face in colors of soft gold and fading green.

Jeeny: “You’re wrong, Jack. Gifts aren’t about debt. They’re about memory. About saying, I see you. You can’t put that in numbers or accounts.”

Jack: “And yet people try. They measure love in how much they spend, how grand they make it look.”

Jeeny: “That’s not love. That’s marketing.”

Host: A faint smile touched Jack’s lips, but it was tinged with sadness — like someone remembering warmth he no longer knew how to hold.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ve just forgotten what it feels like to give without thinking what it costs.”

Jeeny: “Then start small.”

Jack: “Like what?”

Jeeny: “Like this.”

Host: She handed him the small box from under the tree — wrapped simply in brown paper, tied with a single piece of twine. Jack hesitated before taking it, his hands trembling slightly.

Jack: “You know I didn’t get you anything this year.”

Jeeny: “You’re here, aren’t you? That’s enough.”

Host: He unwrapped it slowly. Inside was a photo — the two of them from years ago, laughing under a broken umbrella, drenched from rain. Beneath it, in her careful handwriting: ‘The only gift that lasts is time shared.’

Jack looked up, his throat tightening.

Jack: “You kept this?”

Jeeny: “I kept the feeling. The picture just helps me remember it.”

Host: The firelight flickered against his face, revealing the first trace of vulnerability — the part of him that logic had long buried.

Jack: “You know, I always thought giving made people weak. Like it meant you needed someone else’s happiness to justify your own.”

Jeeny: “No. It makes you brave — because you’re giving something you can’t control. Once it leaves your hands, it’s theirs to love, ignore, or forget. But you give it anyway.”

Jack: “That’s terrifying.”

Jeeny: “That’s love.”

Host: Silence again. But this time, it wasn’t cold. The snow outside had thickened, muffling the world into a gentle hush. The record crackled to its final track, the singer’s voice soft and slow — a whisper in the warmth.

Jack: “You know, I never realized until now… Mariah wasn’t talking about presents at all, was she?”

Jeeny: “No. She was talking about joy — how giving it is its own kind of gift.”

Jack: “And you think that still works in this world? People giving for the sake of giving?”

Jeeny: “It’s the only thing that ever has.”

Host: The fire dimmed, the last of the wood collapsing in a sigh of ember and ash. Jeeny leaned back against the wall, her head resting lightly on Jack’s shoulder. He didn’t move — just stared at the glow of the dying fire, his eyes distant but softened.

Jack: “You’re impossible, you know that?”

Jeeny: “And yet you’re still here.”

Host: Outside, the snow fell slower now, like feathers drifting down from some unseen sky. The lights of the city shimmered beneath it — muted, peaceful.

Jack reached into his pocket, pulled out a small, crumpled receipt, and began to fold it carefully. When he finished, he handed her a crooked little paper star.

Jack: “There. Something small. Something useless.”

Jeeny smiled, taking it gently.

Jeeny: “Something perfect.”

Host: The camera would linger here — on their quiet faces, the soft light, the flickering shadows. No grand gesture, no dramatic ending. Just two souls sharing the simplest of miracles: the act of giving, unmeasured and pure.

Outside, the snow kept falling — each flake a silent reminder that beauty, like generosity, asks for nothing in return.