New Year's Eve to Valentine's Day is our peak season, and in many

Host: The city café hummed with winter energy — that soft tension between hope and habit that only comes in January. The glass windows fogged with every exhale, and the faint scent of espresso and new beginnings drifted through the air.

Outside, fairy lights from New Year’s still hung across the street, tangled ghosts of celebration refusing to die. Inside, two people sat at a corner table — Jack, in his usual grey coat, fingers wrapped around a mug of black coffee; and Jeeny, scarf draped like a banner of warmth and defiance, stirring her hot chocolate with idle grace.

Jeeny: “Sam Yagan once said, ‘New Year’s Eve to Valentine’s Day is our peak season, and in many ways, Valentine’s Day is our Christmas. Everybody in the world makes the same three New Year’s resolutions: health, career and money, and love.’”

Jack: (smirking) “Ah yes, the holy trinity of modern faith — the body, the wallet, and the heart.”

Jeeny: “You forgot the app that tries to sell you all three.”

Jack: (chuckling) “Touché. I suppose Yagan would know — he built one of them.”

Jeeny: “He did. right? The man turned longing into logistics.”

Jack: “And loneliness into revenue.”

Jeeny: “That’s not entirely fair. He just industrialized what people were already desperate for — connection.”

Jack: “Maybe. But there’s something strange about love being seasonal, like strawberries or flu shots.”

Jeeny: “That’s not strange, Jack. That’s human. The cold months make people feel the absence louder. The nights stretch, the body remembers warmth. You start thinking of someone’s hand instead of your own.”

Host: Outside, snow fell lightly, dissolving the reflection of streetlights into soft halos. Inside, the hum of the espresso machine rose — the hiss of pressure and release, the ritual of caffeine and confession.

Jack: “So you’re saying the business of love is just supply and demand for affection?”

Jeeny: “It’s supply and demand for meaning. Every year begins with the same hunger — to be better, to be wanted, to belong.”

Jack: “And yet, by March, everyone’s back to drinking wine alone and deleting gym apps.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The illusion fades, but the desire stays. That’s why it works. We’re addicted to renewal, not improvement.”

Jack: “Addicted to the idea that we can reinvent ourselves through effort.”

Jeeny: “Or through someone else’s eyes.”

Jack: (quietly) “You think love’s just another resolution that fails?”

Jeeny: “No. I think love’s the only one worth failing at repeatedly.”

Host: Her voice lingered — soft, firm, the sound of a truth that doesn’t need applause. The clock on the café wall ticked steadily toward midnight. A couple nearby clinked their glasses, toasting something vague and hopeful.

Jack: “You know what I find funny about New Year’s? It’s just a clock tick, but people treat it like salvation. A second passes, and suddenly they believe they can start over.”

Jeeny: “Because we need illusions of reset. The human heart can’t live on straight lines; it needs circles — endings disguised as beginnings.”

Jack: “That’s poetic.”

Jeeny: “That’s survival.”

Jack: “And Valentine’s Day?”

Jeeny: “That’s the echo. The world’s loneliest holiday disguised as celebration.”

Jack: “You really think so?”

Jeeny: “Come on, Jack. Half the people who celebrate it are trying to prove they’re in love. The other half are trying to prove they’re okay not being.”

Host: The barista laughed at something by the counter, breaking the rhythm of their quiet. The café felt suddenly smaller, more intimate — like time itself had leaned in to listen.

Jack: “So Yagan calls Valentine’s Day their Christmas — the peak of emotional consumerism.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Christmas for the heart. Commercial faith in the idea that love can be bought, scheduled, algorithmically optimized.”

Jack: “And yet, despite knowing that, we still play along.”

Jeeny: “Because hope sells. Because every January, people forget what didn’t work last time.”

Jack: “So, the world runs on recycled yearning.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every heart starts the year thinking it can be rewritten.”

Host: A waiter brought another round of drinks, the smell of roasted beans curling into the air like nostalgia for something that hasn’t happened yet.

Jack: “You know, there’s something almost religious about it — health, money, love. The body, the temple. The bank, the altar. The relationship, the prayer.”

Jeeny: “And failure — the confession.”

Jack: “So what are you resolving this year?”

Jeeny: “To stop resolving. To let the food fight it out inside.”

Jack: (laughing) “Quoting Twain now?”

Jeeny: “Maybe he and Yagan were saying the same thing in different centuries: stop chasing perfection. Just live through your contradictions.”

Jack: “You mean stop trying to optimize the soul.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Let your heart be messy. Let it hunger.”

Host: The snow outside had thickened, falling in quiet sheets that softened the city’s edges. The lights blurred into gold and white, and the world looked gentler — if only for a moment.

Jack: “You know, if Valentine’s Day is Christmas, what’s New Year’s Eve?”

Jeeny: “It’s confession night. The world forgiving itself for another year of broken promises.”

Jack: “And making new ones it knows it won’t keep.”

Jeeny: “Yes — but meaning them, just the same. That’s the beauty. The sincerity of temporary faith.”

Jack: “You think Yagan sees that irony? The business built on people believing love renews every year?”

Jeeny: “Of course he does. But maybe he also believes it’s sacred — that even a digital connection can be real if two people show up honestly.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s the miracle: even in the marketplace, people still fall genuinely.”

Jeeny: “Because love, even when sold, can’t be faked for long.”

Host: The neon light outside flickered once more, then steadied — casting a pink glow across their table, painting their faces in the color of irony and warmth.

Jack: “You know, maybe Yagan’s quote isn’t cynical at all. Maybe it’s just descriptive — of how every year, we start again with the same three hungers.”

Jeeny: “Health, money, and love.”

Jack: “And maybe the only one that really matters is the last.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s the only one you can’t do alone.”

Host: The clock struck midnight. A few customers clapped, laughing, raising glasses to no one in particular. Outside, the snow slowed — flakes drifting lazily under the streetlights like tired wishes.

And in that fragile quiet, Sam Yagan’s words unfolded like an unwritten resolution of their own:

That modern life begins each year with the same hungers,
that love remains both the business and the mystery,
and that despite knowing better,
we still chase it — again and again —
not because we forget,
but because we believe.

Host: Jeeny put on her coat, her scarf falling perfectly against the soft light.

Jeeny: “See you on Valentine’s?”

Jack: (smiling) “Only if the algorithms allow it.”

Jeeny: “Then may the odds — and the heart — be ever in your favor.”

Host: They laughed.

Outside, the city breathed — cold, alive, expectant —
and somewhere between New Year’s promises and February dreams,
another season of hope quietly began.