It may be a cliche, but it's true - the build-up to Christmas is

Host: The streetlights flickered against the wet cobblestone, their reflections rippling like ghosts across the puddles. A faint smell of roasted chestnuts drifted through the chill, and bells rang from a church tower somewhere beyond the fog. Inside the small café, tinsel hung from the ceiling, and a single string of yellow lights blinked lazily, as if even they were tired of pretending to be festive.

Jack sat by the window, his hands clasped around a half-drunk espresso, his face catching the glow of the streetlights outside. He was silent, observing the passersby who hurried through the evening with their shopping bags, their scarves fluttering in the wind.

Jeeny sat across from him, her eyes bright, her cheeks touched with a faint pink from the cold. She stirred her tea absentmindedly, her fingers tracing small circles on the tabletop.

Host: The city hummed with anticipation — that strange energy that builds in December, when the world tries to remember what it means to hope.

Jeeny: “It’s almost Christmas, Jack. You can feel it, can’t you? The music, the lights, even the air feels… softer somehow.”

Jack: “Softer?” (he snorted, his grey eyes narrowing) “Feels like pressure to me. Deadlines, expenses, crowds. Everyone’s pretending to be happy because a calendar told them to.”

Jeeny: (smiling gently) “You always see the burden, never the beauty. It’s not about pretending — it’s about anticipation. The build-up is what makes it all magical.”

Jack: “Yeah, I’ve heard that. ‘It’s the journey, not the destination.’ But you know what? The destination always disappoints. Christmas Day comes, and what happens? Torn wrapping paper, arguments, and cold leftovers. The build-up is just false advertising.”

Host: A soft laughter rose from a nearby table, where two teenagers exchanged gifts wrapped in silver paper. The sound floated between Jack and Jeeny, like a memory trying to breathe.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point, Jack. The anticipation keeps us alive. It gives us something to look forward to. Think about it — when you were a kid, wasn’t the waiting half the joy?”

Jack: (leaning back, exhaling smoke) “When I was a kid, I believed in Santa Claus too. Doesn’t mean it was true. The waiting is just a trick our brains play — a little chemical high before reality comes crashing in.”

Jeeny: “But if the high feels real, if it makes you smile, if it brings people together — doesn’t that make it true enough?”

Jack: “You’re confusing pleasure with meaning. Pleasure fades. Meaning sticks.”

Host: A pause lingered. Outside, a child’s laughter echoed through the mist, followed by the faint jingle of a bell. Jeeny’s eyes softened, as if she could see something far beyond the windowpane — something Jack had long since forgotten.

Jeeny: “You know, there was a study once — I think it was from the University of Amsterdam — it said that most people are happier during the weeks before their vacation than during the vacation itself. They called it the ‘anticipation effect.’ It’s not about reality, Jack. It’s about the promise of it.”

Jack: (smirking) “Exactly. Promises. Illusions. That’s what I’m saying. We’re all hooked on fantasies because the truth is too ordinary.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe we need those fantasies to make the ordinary bearable.”

Host: The rain began to fall — not heavy, just a quiet drizzle, each drop catching the glow of the lights outside like tiny sparks of memory.

Jack: “You ever think about how it ends? The tree wilts, the lights go out, the streets empty. Everyone goes back to their jobs, their routines. The magic dies faster than the pine needles fall.”

Jeeny: “You always kill the magic before it even starts.”

Jack: “I just see it for what it is — temporary.”

Jeeny: “Everything’s temporary, Jack. Even pain, even disappointment. But that doesn’t mean the moments in between aren’t worth feeling.”

Host: The tension thickened between them, like steam rising from their cups. Jeeny’s hands trembled slightly as she lifted her tea, while Jack’s eyes searched hers, not in anger, but in something closer to longing.

Jeeny: “You talk about truth as if it’s a stone — cold, hard, unchanging. But life isn’t like that. It’s soft, fluid. It’s the waiting, the expectation, the hope that makes us human.”

Jack: “Hope? Hope is the opiate of the sentimental. You ever notice how people crash after Christmas? They call it the ‘post-holiday blues.’ The same people who were singing about joy a week before end up depressed. That’s not hope — that’s withdrawal.”

Jeeny: (leaning forward, her voice trembling) “But isn’t that still part of being alive? Feeling the rise and the fall? You can’t have joy without loss, Jack. Even the build-up matters because it teaches us that happiness isn’t a place, it’s a moment.”

Host: The café door opened suddenly, letting in a gust of cold air and the sound of a choir singing from the square. The melody wove through the room, thin but tender, like a thread of light across dark fabric.

Jack: (softly) “You really think the build-up means more than the day itself?”

Jeeny: “I do. Because the build-up is filled with possibility. Once the day comes, it’s already past. The anticipation keeps us moving. It’s what makes people decorate, write cards, call their parents, even if they haven’t spoken all year. The expectation makes us try.”

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe. Or maybe it just keeps us from facing how empty things are when the music stops.”

Jeeny: (her eyes glistening) “Or maybe it reminds us we’re not as empty as we think. Even the sadness after it ends means it mattered.”

Host: A long silence. Only the sound of the rain, steady and rhythmic, like the heartbeat of the city.

Jack: (after a while) “You know… maybe that’s why I still buy the tree every year. Even when I don’t want to. Maybe I just like the waiting too.”

Jeeny: (smiling through the dim light) “Exactly. The waiting is the miracle we keep forgetting.”

Host: The lights flickered once more, catching the faint steam from their cups, turning it into a soft haze that drifted upward like memory. Outside, the choir’s song swelled — a tender, fragile melody about peace, about hope, about the silent night.

Jack reached for his coat, but then stopped, his hand resting on the table, his eyes meeting Jeeny’s.

Jack: “Maybe Julie Burchill was right. The build-up really is more pleasurable than the day itself.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But that’s because the build-up isn’t about pleasure — it’s about believing something beautiful might still be ahead.”

Host: The camera would have lingered there — on the two figures, the soft glow of streetlights painting their faces, the world outside dissolving into silver rain. The moment — simple, fleeting — held more truth than the holiday itself.

Host: For a brief instant, they both smiled, as if understanding that the real gift wasn’t in the celebration, but in the expectation — the sweet, aching tension between what is and what could be.

Host: And outside, the rain kept falling, gently washing the city clean, ready for another beginning.