My parents still treat Christmas like I'm thirteen years old.

Host: The snow had begun to fall — slow, heavy, and almost theatrical — the kind of snow that muffles city sounds until all that’s left is the faint crunch of footsteps and the distant hum of streetlights flickering like old memories.

It was Christmas Eve, and the neighborhood was glowing with warm windows, tinsel reflections, and the faint scent of cinnamon drifting through the air. Inside one of those small suburban houses, Jack and Jeeny sat at a kitchen table covered in wrapping paper, tape, and two half-empty mugs of hot chocolate that had long since gone cold.

The room was a perfect still life of nostalgia — family photos on the wall, a slightly crooked tree drowning in ornaments, and an old record player spinning a scratchy version of Silent Night.

Jack leaned back in his chair, his grey eyes reflecting the blinking lights from the tree. Jeeny sat opposite him, legs curled under her, wrapping a small gift with the kind of care people reserve for fragile things — or fragile memories.

Host: The air between them was quiet, touched with both laughter and a subtle ache that only the holidays seem to bring.

Jeeny: “Mike Shinoda once said, ‘My parents still treat Christmas like I’m thirteen years old.’”

Jack: laughs softly “Yeah. Sounds about right. Mine still call me to ask if I’ve packed enough warm socks.”

Jeeny: “And do you ever tell them you haven’t?”

Jack: “Every damn year. Just to see the look on my mom’s face when she starts packing some for me anyway.”

Host: He smiled — not a mocking smile, but one tinged with tender irony, like a man standing halfway between who he was and who he became.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How we spend our lives trying to grow up, to break free, and then December comes… and suddenly we’re thirteen again. Arguing about decorations, pretending we don’t care about presents, but still waiting for something magical to happen.”

Jack: “Magic’s just marketing now, Jeeny. You know that.”

Jeeny: “Oh, don’t start with your cynicism tonight.”

Jack: “No, I mean it. The holiday used to feel like… I don’t know… wonder. Now it’s receipts, deadlines, family arguments, and pretending to enjoy your uncle’s stories about taxes.”

Host: Jeeny paused, a small smile curving her lips, but her eyes softened with something more serious.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point. Maybe we keep treating it like we’re kids because deep down, we miss believing. Our parents do it too — not because they think we’re children, but because they miss the years when we still were.”

Jack: “So you’re saying it’s not about me at all — it’s about them.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. They still see the version of you who ran down the stairs with bed hair, who believed Santa could fix everything. They hold on to that, because it’s the only time in their lives when everything felt simple.”

Jack: “You think it’s simple raising a kid who broke his arm trying to jump off the roof pretending to be Batman?”

Jeeny: laughing “That’s exactly my point. Even that memory — as chaotic as it was — probably makes them happy. They remember you alive, reckless, unhurt by life.”

Host: The light from the tree blinked across Jack’s face, coloring him in alternating shades of green and red — half memory, half man.

Jack: “You ever feel like they don’t really see who you’ve become? Like they’re blind to the years that’ve passed? I come home, and suddenly I’m not a grown man with bills and regrets — I’m just the kid who forgot to clean his room.”

Jeeny: “That’s love, Jack. Not blindness. Love doesn’t track time the same way logic does. To them, you’re eternal — thirteen forever. They don’t see your wrinkles, your mistakes, or your scars. They just see their child, frozen in a moment when you still needed them.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s the part that hurts.”

Jeeny: “Why?”

Jack: “Because I don’t want to be that kid anymore. I’ve seen too much. I’ve lost too much. I can’t just sit around pretending that the world’s as kind as it was when I was thirteen.”

Jeeny: “But maybe that’s what Christmas is — a rehearsal for remembering kindness. We pretend long enough for it to feel real again. And maybe… maybe that’s how it becomes real.”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly, as if she were speaking more to herself than to him. Outside, the snow grew heavier, thickening the air with silence.

Jack: “You sound like a movie script.”

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who secretly believes it but won’t admit it.”

Jack: “Don’t push it.”

Host: He grinned faintly, his hands fidgeting with a small gift tag that read To Mom, From Jack.

Jeeny: “You’re still wrapping that? What is it?”

Jack: “A scarf. Same one I buy her every year. She’ll pretend to be surprised. I’ll pretend I didn’t just get it yesterday.”

Jeeny: “And that’s the dance of love — repetition dressed as tradition.”

Jack: “You make it sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “Because it is. Every year, we do the same things — the same dinner, the same music, the same arguments — and yet it still means something. Like a song you’ve heard a thousand times but still can’t skip.”

Host: The fireplace crackled softly, throwing up tiny sparks that danced like golden ghosts.

Jack: “You know, I used to think my parents were ridiculous for making such a big deal out of it. But now I get it. They’re not celebrating the day — they’re celebrating what survived. Us.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The clock ticked quietly. The snow outside deepened into stillness. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell rang twelve slow, solemn chimes.

Jeeny: “So, thirteen-year-old Jack — ready to open presents?”

Jack: “Only if there’s hot chocolate and my mom’s overcooked turkey.”

Jeeny: smiling “You know, for someone who claims to hate nostalgia, you’re pretty good at living in it.”

Jack: “Yeah, well… maybe I’ve learned that some parts of childhood are worth visiting — even if you don’t stay long.”

Host: The camera would slowly pan back now — past the tree, the flickering lights, the cluttered table. Through the window, the snow fell endlessly, soft and luminous, wrapping the world in temporary innocence.

Jack leaned forward, lighting a small candle in the center of the table. Its flame wavered, reflected in Jeeny’s eyes — two small stars caught in the gravity of memory.

Jack: “Maybe Mike Shinoda was right. Maybe part of us will always be thirteen. Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”

Jeeny: “No. Maybe that’s the only part of us that still believes in magic.”

Host: Outside, the snowflakes danced under the streetlight, each one falling like a tiny memory, melting before it reached the ground — as if time itself was whispering, grow up, but don’t forget.

And inside that small room, beneath the quiet hum of lights and the faint smell of cocoa, two souls sat between youth and age, laughter and silence — keeping alive, if only for one more night, the fragile miracle of still being someone’s child.