No matter how excluded you have become from Christmas, it is a

Host: The street was drenched in light — strings of gold and red bulbs hung from every window, casting a warm, unforgiving glow across the snow-soaked pavement. A choir from the nearby church sang faintly in the distance, their voices like the echo of a forgotten childhood.

Inside a small corner café, the windows fogged with steam and the smell of cinnamon, Jack and Jeeny sat at their usual table — one candle, two mugs, and a silence thick enough to touch.

The radio behind the counter played an old carol, the kind that hurts more than it heals. On the table, Jeeny had scribbled a quote from a torn magazine page:

“No matter how excluded you have become from Christmas, it is a genuinely inclusive matter; frankly, you are conscripted into it.” — Robert Rinder

Jeeny: “Isn’t that strange, Jack? The idea that Christmas doesn’t just invite you — it enlists you. Even if you don’t want it.”

Jack: “Yeah, that’s the problem. It’s like joy has turned into obligation. The whole thing feels forced — a holiday you can’t escape, even if you’ve got nothing left to celebrate.”

Host: The candlelight flickered against Jack’s face, carving shadows beneath his eyes. The murmur of laughter and clinking glasses from other tables only made their quiet feel louder.

Jeeny: “But that’s exactly the point, isn’t it? It’s inescapable because it’s human. Christmas isn’t about choice — it’s about connection, even the unwanted kind. It’s like the world’s heartbeat insists that you still belong somewhere.”

Jack: “Belonging by force doesn’t mean belonging, Jeeny. It’s like when people tell you to smile for the family photo. You do it, but your heart isn’t in it. You’re a ghost standing among the living.”

Host: Jeeny stared at him — that soft, piercing look that always cut deeper than anger. She blew on her coffee, her breath swirling like mist.

Jeeny: “Maybe the ghosts need to be there too. Maybe that’s why it’s inclusive. Even those who’ve been hurt, or who’ve lost something — they’re still part of the ritual. You don’t have to be happy to be included.”

Jack: “Then what’s the point? Why pretend? I see people buying, posting, smiling — it’s like an annual theatre of contentment. I used to think I’d find peace in it. Now I just watch it like a bad rerun.”

Jeeny: “But you still watch. That’s the magic of it, Jack. It pulls you in whether you believe or not. Like gravity. It’s not about faith or money — it’s about the need to feel part of something larger, even if it’s just for one night.”

Host: The doorbell jingled as a young couple entered, their laughter bright, their hands tangled in each other’s scarves. For a moment, the warmth of their presence filled the room — then faded, like a firefly too brief to hold.

Jack: “You talk like it’s some kind of salvation. But what about the ones who’ve got no one? The ones who sit in rooms where the only light comes from a television looping fake snow? You think they feel ‘conscripted’ into joy?”

Jeeny: “Maybe they’re the ones who feel it most. The ache of it. That’s the thing about Christmas — it doesn’t exclude your pain; it just illuminates it. It says, ‘Look — you’re still human. You still feel.’”

Host: The rain outside had turned to snow, the flakes falling softly against the glass, melting on contact. The streetlight painted them gold.

Jack: “You sound like one of those cards — ‘Even your sadness is beautiful.’ But it’s not. It’s ugly, Jeeny. It’s raw. When you’re standing in a store, hearing Silent Night, and you just want it to stop because you can’t bear to feel how alone you are — there’s nothing inclusive about that.”

Jeeny: “I know that feeling, Jack. Last year, after my mother died, I tried to skip Christmas entirely. No tree, no lights, nothing. But the world didn’t let me. Every window, every street, every song — it all insisted I still had to live. I hated it. But it also kept me breathing.”

Host: The café lights dimmed slightly as the barista switched on a string of tiny bulbs above the counter — blue, soft, and oddly melancholic.

Jack: “So you think the world forcing you to remember is a kind of mercy?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because inclusion isn’t always comforting. Sometimes it’s painful. It’s the universe saying, ‘You don’t get to opt out, even when you want to.’ It’s a draft notice for the heart. And maybe that’s what Rinder meant — that Christmas isn’t a party you’re invited to. It’s a summons.”

Host: The clock above the espresso machine ticked. The sound was almost ceremonial — the slow rhythm of time moving through memory.

Jack: “A summons to what?”

Jeeny: “To remember that you still belong — even in your grief, even in your cynicism. That the story of this season — birth, forgiveness, light — it doesn’t wait for your faith. It just happens, with or without you. You’re already in the cast.”

Host: Jack’s hand tightened around his mug. The steam had cooled, but he still held it — as if to anchor himself in its heat.

Jack: “You really believe that, don’t you? That it doesn’t matter how far you’ve fallen — the season will still find you.”

Jeeny: “Yes. It’s like gravity, remember? It pulls everything toward the light — even the darkness.”

Host: Outside, a small boy was dragging a Christmas tree across the sidewalk, his father laughing, their boots crunching in the snow. The tree was too big for him, but he kept pulling, his arms straining, his cheeks red.

Jeeny smiled, watching through the window.

Jeeny: “See that? That’s the whole metaphor. We’re all that kid, trying to carry something too big, too heavy, but still moving toward the light. That’s Christmas, Jack. You don’t need to believe in it. You just need to endure it until it melts your resistance.”

Jack: “And then what?”

Jeeny: “Then it reminds you you’re still alive.”

Host: The snowfall thickened, muting the city until it felt almost sacred. Jack looked out at the white, his reflection merging with the streetlight’s glow. Something in his expression softened — a crease in his defenses, a flicker of the child still inside him.

Jack: “Maybe that’s why I keep coming here. Every December I tell myself I’m done with it — the songs, the ritual, the pretending. But then… I end up here, with you, under a candle, talking about meaning again.”

Jeeny: “That’s what being conscripted looks like. You can’t help but show up.”

Host: The café quieted, only the whisper of the snow and the faint hum of a carol from a speaker near the door.

Jack: “Alright, Jeeny. Let’s say you’re right. Let’s say we’re all drafted into this season. What’s our duty, then?”

Jeeny: “To keep believing in the light, even when it doesn’t believe in us. To keep showing up — not because we’re ready, but because we’re needed.”

Host: Jack nodded, the kind of nod that carries resignation and relief in equal measure. He reached across the table, touching her hand. It was a small, human gesture, but it changed the air around them.

The carol ended, and for a moment, there was only silence — the kind that feels like peace rather than absence.

Host: “Outside, the snow kept falling, and the city, for all its noise and loneliness, began to look almost forgiving. Because no matter how far one runs, the season still finds you — not to judge, but to remind you that you are still part of the story. You can refuse the party, but never the invitation.”

And as the light from the candle flickered in the window, it seemed to burn a little brighter, as if it too were conscripted — bound to shine, no matter who was watching.