It's surprising to me how many of my friends send Christmas

Host: The café was tucked on a narrow London street, its windows fogged from the inside, its lights warm, and its air thick with the aroma of roasted coffee and the faint sweetness of cinnamon. Jack sat by the window, his coat still damp from the drizzle outside, a newspaper folded beside his untouched cappuccino. Across from him, Jeeny was bent over a stack of Christmas cards, her pen moving in graceful, looping strokes.

Outside, the rain fell soft as memory, the kind that seemed to make the city glow rather than dim.

Jeeny looked up, smiling faintly, her hand paused mid-sentence.

Jeeny: “You know what Christopher Hitchens once said? ‘It’s surprising to me how many of my friends send Christmas cards, or holiday cards, including my atheist and secular friends.’”

Host: Jack raised an eyebrow, half amused, half skeptical, as if the name Hitchens itself had lit a small spark of debate behind his eyes.

Jack: “Hitchens. Now there’s a man who could pick a fight with silence itself.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But even he couldn’t resist the charm of Christmas post.”

Jack: “Charm? That’s one way to spin hypocrisy.”

Jeeny: “You call it hypocrisy. I call it human.”

Host: She turned another card over — a snowy village, candles glowing in each window, printed with ‘Peace on Earth.’ The pen in her hand hovered like a question mark.

Jack: “You really think an atheist sending Christmas cards is human and not ironic?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s both. Maybe that’s what makes it beautiful.”

Jack: “Beautiful? You’ve lost me.”

Jeeny: “Well, think about it. Maybe they don’t believe in the divine message of Christmas, but they still believe in connection — in kindness, in tradition. Isn’t that what rituals are for? To remind us we’re part of something larger, even if we can’t define it?”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s just habit. You can dress routine in sentiment all you want; it doesn’t make it sacred.”

Jeeny: “No, but maybe it makes it sincere. People who don’t believe in heaven still look at the stars. It’s not about faith — it’s about wonder.”

Host: Jack smirked faintly, but his eyes softened, betraying a quiet curiosity. He reached for his coffee, the steam curling between them like a fragile bridge.

Jack: “So you think Hitchens was wrong? That he was mocking his friends for celebrating something they don’t believe in?”

Jeeny: “I don’t think he was mocking. I think he was marveling. Hitchens wasn’t surprised by hypocrisy; he was surprised by longing. Even the secular heart craves ritual. Maybe Christmas isn’t about belief anymore — maybe it’s about remembering that kindness has seasons too.”

Host: A busker outside began playing a soft tune on a saxophone — “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” The melody floated through the drizzle, low and nostalgic.

Jack leaned back, staring out the window.

Jack: “You think it’s longing that keeps people writing cards? Or guilt?”

Jeeny: “Maybe both. Guilt is just love that doesn’t know how to express itself properly.”

Jack: “And ritual is love disguised as duty.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Which is why even cynics keep mailing cards. Because deep down, everyone wants to be remembered.”

Host: Jeeny’s pen moved again, signing her name in flowing ink. Jeeny & Jack — Wishing You Light.

Jack watched her for a long moment before speaking.

Jack: “You know, I used to love Christmas. Until I realized how much pretending goes into it. The smiles, the family dinners, the good cheer — all curated like a commercial.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you still showed up at a café that smells like cinnamon, in December, watching the rain. You can’t fool me. You’re a romantic cynic.”

Jack: “Romantic cynic. Is that your diagnosis?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s your condition.”

Host: The sound of laughter drifted from a nearby table, a couple clinking mugs. The whole place seemed suspended between melancholy and warmth — a mood that felt like truth itself.

Jack: “You really think atheists can celebrate Christmas without contradiction?”

Jeeny: “Of course. If you strip away theology, what’s left is generosity, memory, hope. Those belong to everyone.”

Jack: “Hope without a heaven?”

Jeeny: “Hope doesn’t need heaven. It just needs humanity.”

Host: Jack’s gaze dropped to one of the cards on the table — a simple design: a dove carrying an olive branch. No baby Jesus. No angels. Just quiet symbolism.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what Hitchens was seeing — irony turning into universality.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Even the most rational minds crave meaning. Christmas, stripped of religion, still glows with it. It’s the paradox that makes it powerful — people rejecting God but clinging to goodwill.”

Jack: “You make contradiction sound noble.”

Jeeny: “It’s not noble. It’s honest. We’re all contradictions. We preach logic and live in emotion. Hitchens knew that — that’s why his surprise was laced with admiration, not judgment.”

Host: The saxophone faded into silence. Outside, the rain lightened, tapping gently on the windowpane like a metronome keeping time with their conversation.

Jack: “You know, I read once that even Hitchens, for all his atheism, loved Christmas dinner. The wine, the warmth, the laughter.”

Jeeny: “Of course he did. You can reject the story and still cherish the feeling. That’s what makes us human — we live in metaphors we don’t have to believe to find meaning in.”

Jack: “So you’re saying even unbelievers need rituals.”

Jeeny: “Especially unbelievers. Rituals aren’t proof of faith — they’re proof of longing. We celebrate not because we believe, but because we remember.”

Host: The café lights flickered as the barista plugged in a string of fairy lights along the counter. The room grew warmer, brighter — every table now wrapped in a soft amber glow.

Jack picked up one of Jeeny’s finished cards, reading it quietly.

Jack: “‘Wishing you light.’ You always write that. Why not say Merry Christmas like everyone else?”

Jeeny: “Because not everyone celebrates Christmas. But everyone understands light.”

Jack: “You should’ve told that to Hitchens.”

Jeeny: “I think he would’ve understood.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly, a real one this time — not the smirk of the skeptic, but the soft grin of someone who had been gently, unexpectedly moved.

Jack: “You know, for someone so devoutly secular, you sound suspiciously spiritual sometimes.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s because the soul doesn’t care what you call it.”

Host: Outside, the rain had stopped entirely. The streetlamps shimmered on the wet pavement, turning the world into reflections of gold and silver. Jeeny gathered her cards, tucking them neatly into an envelope.

Jeeny: “You don’t have to believe in Christmas to believe in kindness. That’s all it ever meant anyway.”

Jack: “And the cards?”

Jeeny: “Little reminders. That even in disbelief, love still wants to be sent somewhere.”

Host: The camera pulled back slowly — two figures in a fogged window, surrounded by warm light, laughter, and the quiet hum of humanity holding itself together.

And as the scene faded into the gentle glow of winter, Hitchens’ words lingered — not as irony, but as insight:

That even those who reject faith still crave fellowship,
That even disbelief has its own form of devotion,
And that perhaps the truest ritual of all
is not in what we believe,
but in how we choose —
year after year —
to keep reaching for one another through the dark.