I'm so depressed. Christmas is the worst of all. Holidays are

Host: The snow fell in slow, hesitant spirals — like ash drifting through the cold night air. A row of old streetlights burned dimly along a quiet avenue, their light trembling on the icy pavement. Inside a small apartment, the world smelled faintly of coffee, cigarette smoke, and the faint electric hum of loneliness.

Host: Jack sat slumped on a sofa, surrounded by tangled strings of Christmas lights, a half-decorated tree leaning in the corner. Jeeny stood by the window, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug, her breath fogging the glass as she watched the snow gather on the street below.

Host: It was December 24th. The hour when joy becomes expectation — and expectation becomes weight.

Jack: Flatly. “You ever feel like the whole world’s pretending? Like everyone’s smiling because they’re supposed to?”

Jeeny: Without turning around. “It’s Christmas, Jack. Pretending is half the ritual.”

Jack: A short, humorless laugh. “David O. Selznick said, ‘I’m so depressed. Christmas is the worst of all. Holidays are terrible, worse than Sundays. I get melancholia.’ I get him. Every word of it.”

Jeeny: Turns slowly, her eyes soft but steady. “You sound like someone quoting scripture.”

Jack: “In a way, it is. A gospel of honesty. Everyone else acts like the season’s some kind of miracle, and I’m over here suffocating under all the blinking lights.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s because Christmas has nothing to do with miracles anymore. Just expectations.”

Jack: Picks up a broken ornament, rolling it between his fingers. “Yeah. Expectations wrapped in glitter. ‘Be happy, be grateful, be together.’ But what if you can’t? What if being together hurts?”

Host: The light from the tree flickered against his face — green, red, gold — shifting like an old film reel playing memories he didn’t want to watch. Jeeny walked closer, the sound of her steps soft on the wooden floor.

Jeeny: “You’re not wrong. Holidays make loneliness louder.”

Jack: “It’s like the world amplifies whatever you don’t have. Love, peace, family. You can almost hear the absence.”

Jeeny: “That’s melancholia — the echo of something missing.”

Jack: “It’s not just missing. It’s mocking. Everywhere you look — couples holding hands, families taking photos, kids laughing in snow. You start to feel defective, like your soul didn’t get the memo about joy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe joy’s not what you think it is.”

Jack: “Don’t start with your poetic optimism. Not tonight.”

Jeeny: Smiles faintly. “Maybe I have to. Someone has to balance you out, Scrooge.”

Jack: Glares playfully. “Don’t call me that.”

Jeeny: “Then stop auditioning for the part.”

Host: A flicker of warmth broke through their tension — a spark, fragile and human. The kind of banter that keeps people tethered when everything else feels like it’s slipping away.

Jack: “You think humor fixes this?”

Jeeny: “Not fixes — softens. Like snow on pavement. It doesn’t erase the cracks, it just makes them bearable.”

Jack: “You really think that’s enough?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes it’s all we have.”

Host: Outside, the wind howled faintly, brushing snow against the glass like fingers seeking entry. The apartment seemed smaller now, intimate — the kind of space where silence had texture.

Jack: “I used to love this time of year. The lights, the songs, the smell of cinnamon. But somewhere along the way, it all started to feel... fake. Like everyone’s performing happiness.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they are. But sometimes performance keeps us from falling apart. You ever seen a soldier march when he’s exhausted? The rhythm keeps him standing.”

Jack: Nods slightly. “So we’re just... marching through it?”

Jeeny: “Until it’s real again. Or at least until it hurts less.”

Jack: Takes a long breath. “My dad used to call Christmas the ‘family circus.’ We’d argue, fake smiles for photos, then drink too much and pretend we were fine. I hated it. But now... I’d give anything to hear that chaos again.”

Jeeny: Softly. “That’s the cruel part of memory — it edits pain into nostalgia.”

Jack: “And nostalgia’s just pain with pretty wrapping.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. But that’s what makes us human — our ability to find beauty in our own suffering.”

Jack: Bitterly. “That’s a twisted kind of beauty.”

Jeeny: “It’s the only kind that lasts.”

Host: The tree lights blinked unevenly, casting their faces in shifting hues. The scene felt like a film — the kind where two characters talk about everything except what they really mean.

Jack: “You know what I think? The holidays remind us how temporary happiness is. How easily it slips away. That’s what depresses me.”

Jeeny: “Maybe happiness isn’t meant to stay. Maybe it visits — like a carol, or a snowfall. You don’t hold on to it; you just stand in it while it lasts.”

Jack: Half-smiles. “You make sadness sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “Sadness is poetic. It’s the only emotion that teaches you the weight of joy.”

Jack: “You should write greeting cards for melancholics.”

Jeeny: “If it helps someone survive December, I will.”

Host: The radio in the corner crackled to life — an old song, Nat King Cole’s “The Christmas Song,” played faintly, its warmth almost unbearable in the still air. Jack stared at the glowing tree, his reflection caught in the glass ornament — distorted, ghostlike.

Jack: Quietly. “I wonder what Selznick was really feeling when he said that. A man who made beauty for a living, admitting he couldn’t feel any. Maybe he was just... tired of pretending.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe he was honest enough to say what everyone else was too afraid to.”

Jack: Nods slowly. “Maybe that’s why it feels like truth.”

Jeeny: “It is truth, Jack. Christmas, holidays — they amplify everything. If you’re happy, they make you glow. If you’re lost, they make you ache. Both are real.”

Jack: “Then what do we do with the ache?”

Jeeny: After a pause. “We share it. We speak it out loud. We sit in rooms like this, under broken lights, and remind each other we’re not alone.”

Jack: Looks at her, eyes softer now. “You make loneliness sound communal.”

Jeeny: “It can be. That’s the secret — connection isn’t always laughter or joy. Sometimes it’s two people being sad together and not running from it.”

Jack: Smiles faintly. “Like us.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The music faded, replaced by the quiet hum of the heater. Outside, the snow fell heavier now, muting the city to a near-perfect silence.

Host: For a long moment, neither spoke. The air between them was filled with the unspoken — loss, longing, memory, and a fragile thread of hope that refused to break.

Jack: “You know... I think maybe the problem isn’t that Christmas is fake. Maybe it’s that we expect it to heal what’s already broken.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And when it doesn’t, we call it cruel. But maybe it’s not meant to heal us — just remind us that healing is needed.”

Jack: “That’s the saddest and truest thing I’ve heard all night.”

Jeeny: “Truth usually is.”

Jack: Reaches for one of the ornaments on the table — a small glass star — and hooks it onto the tree. “There. One honest decoration.”

Jeeny: Smiles softly. “Beautiful, in its own melancholy way.”

Host: The camera would pull back here — catching the two figures framed by the glowing tree, surrounded by half-finished joy. Outside, the world was cold, but inside, something delicate stirred — not happiness, but understanding.

Host: The lights dimmed. The snow thickened. And amid the quiet hum of winter, Jack whispered — almost to himself —

Jack: “Maybe melancholia isn’t something to fight. Maybe it’s the proof we still care.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Only the heart that feels sorrow can still love.”

Host: The scene ended there — with two souls sitting in the half-light, broken but breathing, holding onto the fragile grace of being human in December. The snow kept falling, and for once, neither of them minded.