I never really did Christmas before. Christmas Day? I mean -

Host: The evening was quiet, the kind of quiet that only comes when snow begins to fall — slowly, softly, as if the sky were apologizing for the cold. Through the frosted window of a small airport café, runway lights glowed in the distance, flickering through the mist like tiny candles in the dark. The air smelled of jet fuel and coffee, a strange blend of restlessness and home.

Host: Jack sat alone at the corner table, his coat still on, his hands around a cup that had long gone cold. Jeeny walked in, brushing snowflakes from her hair, her cheeks flushed from the wind. She spotted him and smiled faintly, then joined him without a word.

Host: Between them lay a newspaper, a half-finished crossword, and a small print of a quote, tucked between the pages:
“I never really did Christmas before. Christmas Day? I mean — what’s that? What’s it all about? I was always flying on Christmas Day.” — Monica Seles.

Jack: (looking out the window, voice low) I get that. Flying — that’s what life felt like for years. Airports, meetings, projects. I don’t even remember the last Christmas I actually... stopped.

Jeeny: (softly) Then maybe you never really landed, Jack.

Jack: (half-smiles) Landing’s overrated. You only land when something’s over.

Jeeny: Or when something’s finally beginning.

Host: A plane roared in the distance, its lights lifting into the fog, a silver bird disappearing into nothingness. Jeeny watched it go, her eyes distant — as if she were watching not a plane, but a memory.

Jeeny: You know, when Monica Seles said that, she wasn’t talking about planes. She was talking about disconnection. About living so fast, you forget what stillness feels like.

Jack: (snorts) Stillness doesn’t get you very far. You don’t win by sitting still, Jeeny. You move. You keep going. That’s how you stay alive.

Jeeny: Alive? Or just... moving?

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. The clock above the counter ticked, loud and slow, each second like a small reminder of everything that had been missed.

Jack: Look, not everyone has the luxury to stop and have some poetic epiphany by the fireplace. People work. They chase careers, titles, futures. Seles was the same — she was always flying because she had to win.

Jeeny: (nodding) She was winning, yes — but at what cost? Her words sound less like pride, more like confession. “What’s Christmas Day? What’s that?” Like she suddenly realized she’d missed the whole meaning while chasing the motion.

Jack: (leaning forward, skeptical) So what’s the meaning then, Jeeny? Snow and songs and lights?

Jeeny: No. Presence. The pause. The moment where you’re not trying to get somewhere else. That’s what Christmas means — not religion, not gifts. Just... being.

Jack: (shaking his head) You make it sound easy. But some people are built to move. Like pilots, or athletes, or... me. If I stop, I lose my edge.

Jeeny: (softly but firmly) Or maybe you lose your fear.

Host: That word hit him like a turbulence bump — small but jarring. Fear. The thing he never named but always chased.

Jack: (defensively) Fear of what?

Jeeny: Of stillness. Of being alone long enough to hear your own heart.

Jack: (laughs coldly) You sound like a therapist.

Jeeny: Maybe I sound like the silence you keep avoiding.

Host: Outside, the snow began to thicken, covering the runway lights in a soft blur. The world was slowing, but inside, the tension still moved — fast and sharp.

Jack: You think I don’t want stillness? I’ve tried, Jeeny. Every time I stop, I feel... empty. Like I’m missing the flight.

Jeeny: Maybe it’s not the flight you’re missing. Maybe it’s the arrival.

Host: Jack looked up at her, the words hanging between them like frost on the window — fragile, shimmering, true.

Jack: (quietly) I don’t even know how to arrive anymore.

Jeeny: (reaches for her cup, voice soft but steady) Then maybe that’s the real meaning of inspiration — learning to arrive.

Jack: (bitterly) You make it sound holy.

Jeeny: It is. Every landing is a kind of resurrection.

Host: A silence followed — deep, tender. The kind that doesn’t demand an answer. Just a shared breath in the cold.

Jeeny: (after a pause) You know, when Seles said she was “always flying,” she wasn’t bragging. She was mourning. Because flight without arrival isn’t freedom — it’s escape.

Jack: (rubbing his temples) Maybe that’s all we ever do — escape. From the past, from people, from ourselves.

Jeeny: And maybe Christmas, or whatever we call it, is the one day we’re asked to stop escaping. To come home, even if home isn’t a place.

Host: The wind howled briefly, then died down. The airport speakers crackled with the sound of a delayed flight announcement, the voice muffled, distant.

Jack: (softly, almost to himself) “What’s it all about?” she said. I think she knew the answer — she just couldn’t live it.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) Or maybe she realized it too late.

Jack: (nodding slowly) I don’t want to realize it too late.

Jeeny: (leans in, eyes bright in the low light) Then don’t. You don’t have to fly today.

Jack: (glances at the departure board, then back at her) You mean... stay?

Jeeny: Stay. Sit. Breathe. Watch the snow. Let the world move without you for once.

Host: He looked out the window — the runway lights now barely visible through the white veil. The planes stood still, waiting, silent, like sleeping giants.

Host: For the first time, Jack didn’t feel the urge to board one. He just watched, his reflection flickering against the glass, beside Jeeny’s, two faces framed by light and snow.

Jack: (whispers) You know... maybe this is what it’s all about. Not the day, but the pause.

Jeeny: (smiling softly) Maybe that’s what every holiday really is — a reminder that you’re allowed to stop flying.

Host: Outside, the snow kept falling, quiet, endless, like the world had decided to start over in white. The planes would take off again, the people would rush, the noise would return — but for now, there was only this: two souls, a table, and the soft hum of a world finally at rest.

Host: And in that moment, for the first time in a long time, Jack wasn’t flying. He was simply there — and somehow, that felt like arrival.