Most of the soap operas always use the Christmas special to kill

Host: The snow fell in thick, silent flakes, coating the city streets like dust over a forgotten stage. A distant choir sang somewhere beyond the glass, the tune muffled by the wind. Inside, a television flickered with the glow of yet another holiday special — laughter, tears, and the inevitable explosion of drama that followed.

Host: Jack sat on the couch, his grey eyes fixed on the screen, a faint smirk twisting his mouth. Jeeny leaned against the window, a mug of tea steaming in her hands, watching him instead of the show.

Jeeny: (lightly) “Another Christmas episode, huh?”

Jack: (without looking up) “Yeah. Wait for it. Someone’s about to die.”

Jeeny: (frowning) “You’re joking.”

Jack: “I’m not. Julian Fellowes was right — Christmas specials are a slaughterhouse. If you see snow and carols on TV, someone’s going through a windshield before the credits roll.”

Host: The TV light flickered across his face, giving him a ghostly glow. Outside, the snow pressed harder against the glass, the city dissolving into blur and hush.

Jeeny: “That’s such a bleak way to see it.”

Jack: “No. It’s practical. Think about it. The year ends, the audience expects closure — you kill off a few characters, tidy the plot, and start fresh in January. It’s a general clean-out.”

Jeeny: “Like people’s lives are just stories that need trimming.”

Jack: “Aren’t they? Every year, people do the same thing. They cut off friends, quit jobs, end relationships — burn down what doesn’t fit their narrative. Christmas isn’t about peace and goodwill anymore; it’s a reboot.”

Host: His voice was steady, but behind the sarcasm was a hint of weariness, like someone who had seen too many endings — and maybe caused a few himself.

Jeeny: “That’s a cynical way to see life, Jack. You think we just… kill off what’s inconvenient?”

Jack: “Not always physically. Emotionally. Spiritually. You ever notice how people post about ‘new beginnings’ on New Year’s Eve? That’s not hope, Jeeny. That’s denial dressed in confetti.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound like cleansing is cruelty.”

Jack: “It can be both. Every story needs a body count to move forward.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes narrowed, her breath fogging the window. She turned away from the snow, the light catching in her dark hair.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s true for soap operas. But real life isn’t written by producers trying to shock the audience.”

Jack: (turns toward her) “Isn’t it? Look around. People thrive on tragedy. News feeds, gossip, social media — it’s all serialized pain. We consume heartbreak the way soap operas sell cliffhangers.”

Jeeny: “But we’re not actors, Jack. We’re responsible for what we destroy.”

Host: The TV flared — a car crash, a scream, then a fade to black. A perfect metaphor, the kind that didn’t need explanation. Jeeny’s hands tightened around her mug.

Jeeny: “You think loss is entertainment, don’t you? That pain is just part of the plot.”

Jack: (softly) “No. I think it’s the only thing that makes the plot real.”

Host: The room fell quiet, save for the faint buzz of the television. The lights outside blurred into a streak of gold and red, reflecting in the windowpane like a half-remembered fire.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why people watch these shows. To see pain end. Even if it’s only someone else’s.”

Jack: “Or to see that it never really ends — that no one escapes it. That’s the comfort, in a strange way.”

Jeeny: “That’s not comfort, Jack. That’s surrender.”

Host: She walked closer, her steps soft, her voice rising like a whisper that carried too much truth.

Jeeny: “When you say the word ‘clean-out,’ you make it sound like life’s supposed to be edited. But what if the mess — the heartbreak, the mistakes — what if that’s the story?”

Jack: “And what if the story becomes unbearable? Don’t people have a right to close their own chapters?”

Jeeny: “Sure. But not by burning down the house every December.”

Host: Her eyes glimmered, not from the light, but from something deep, aching, and human.

Jeeny: “Do you know what my grandmother used to say? She said every Christmas was a mirror — it showed you who you’d been, and who you’d lost. And the only real tragedy was forgetting to look.”

Jack: (pauses) “That’s beautiful. And cruel.”

Jeeny: “It’s true. We think endings cleanse us, but they just teach us how much we carry forward. Even the people we ‘kill off’ still live somewhere inside the reruns.”

Host: Jack looked at her, the edge in his eyes softening. The TV screen went dark. Only the faint glow of the lamp lit their faces now — intimate, quiet, unguarded.

Jack: “You ever think about why they always kill someone on Christmas?”

Jeeny: “Because it’s the one time of year people notice.”

Host: The clock ticked in the background, slow and deliberate, each sound a small reminder of time passing, stories ending.

Jack: “Maybe Fellowes was right — it’s a general clean-out. But maybe not of characters. Maybe of illusions.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every December, we bury what we can’t carry anymore — not people, but expectations. And if we’re lucky, we keep what matters.”

Host: She sat beside him, their shoulders brushing, their breaths mingling in the dim light.

Jack: “So what do we keep, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “The reruns worth watching.”

Host: Outside, the snow thickened, falling steady and soundless. The city’s noise faded beneath the weight of it. Inside, the TV screen reflected their two silhouettes — still, imperfect, surviving.

Host: And as the night deepened, and another year prepared to die, it felt — just for a moment — that not everything needed to be burned for the story to go on. Some things could simply stay, flawed and breathing, waiting for their next scene.