Online, there's no time. It's always Christmas.

Host: The city pulsed with screens. Billboards flickered, notifications chimed, faces glowed blue in the dim haze of midnight cafés. It was past two a.m., yet the world refused to sleep — traffic lights blinked, keyboards clattered, conversations hummed through the static of the digital void.

Inside a co-working café, where people traded sleep for Wi-Fi, Jack sat hunched over his laptop, the cold glow painting his sharp features in sterile light. His grey eyes flicked across endless tabs — stocks, feeds, breaking news — as if searching for something he couldn’t name.

Across from him, Jeeny sipped lukewarm coffee, her hair loose, her eyes tired but alive, the faint reflection of her own screen glowing like a small, persistent flame.

On the TV in the corner, a comedian’s voice echoed — Lewis Black, his tone sardonic:
“Online, there’s no time. It’s always Christmas.”

The room laughed faintly, but Jack didn’t.

Jeeny: “That’s clever, isn’t it? ‘It’s always Christmas.’ He’s right. The internet never sleeps, never pauses. Always gifting, always demanding.”

Jack: Without looking up. “Always selling, you mean.”

Jeeny: “Maybe both. It’s a kind of eternal now — no past, no future. Just endless... presence.”

Jack: Snorts. “Presence? You mean addiction. It’s not time that’s gone, Jeeny — it’s meaning. Everyone’s scrolling for dopamine like it’s holy water.”

Host: The neon lights outside rippled through the rain-streaked window, carving faint lines of pink and blue across Jack’s face. His hands trembled slightly as he reached for his drink, though he didn’t notice. The air smelled of coffee, ozone, and exhaustion.

Jeeny: “You sound like you hate it, but here you are — wired in at two in the morning.”

Jack: “That’s because I can’t afford not to be. If you’re offline, you don’t exist. Try telling your boss you didn’t see the email, or your client you’re taking a ‘digital Sabbath.’ You’ll get replaced before your coffee gets cold.”

Jeeny: “So we’re all Santa’s elves now — working 24/7 for the machine.”

Jack: “No. Santa’s the algorithm. We’re just data with deadlines.”

Host: A notification pinged from Jack’s laptop. He closed it with a sharp, irritated motion, as though slamming a door on an invisible intruder. The rain intensified, its rhythm syncopating with the quiet thrum of servers, fans, screens, and souls refusing to disconnect.

Jeeny: “It’s funny, though. Christmas used to be about connection. About warmth, giving, being together. Now it’s become… consumption — like the internet. Maybe that’s what he meant.”

Jack: “Yeah, but Christmas at least ends. The internet doesn’t. It’s a 365-day Black Friday. Notifications are the new carols. The ads know your name, your history, your loneliness.”

Jeeny: “That’s cynical.”

Jack: “That’s realistic.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But isn’t there beauty in it too? The same internet that drowns us also connects us. People find hope there. Love. Friendship. During the lockdown, people survived through screens. That counts for something.”

Jack: “Yeah, until it eats them alive. Hope doesn’t stand a chance when the feed refreshes every second. The moment becomes obsolete before it even breathes.”

Host: A pause, then silence — the kind that hums, electric and heavy. The rain blurred the outside world, leaving only reflections. Jack’s reflection overlapped with Jeeny’s on the glass — two ghosts sharing one digital mirror.

Jeeny: “You’re scared of it.”

Jack: Looks up, sharply. “I’m not scared.”

Jeeny: “Yes, you are. You’re scared because you know you can’t unplug. None of us can. It’s not about the machine anymore. It’s about us.”

Jack: “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jeeny: “It means we’ve forgotten how to wait. How to be bored. How to listen. You said it yourself — ‘it’s always Christmas.’ Always giving, always receiving, but never resting. We’ve turned life into a feed.”

Jack: “And you think logging off fixes that?”

Jeeny: “Not logging off. Slowing down.”

Jack: “You can’t slow down in a race.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time to stop running.”

Host: The lights flickered, the café’s Wi-Fi router blinking like a dying constellation. Outside, a delivery drone zipped through the drizzle, its faint red light scanning the fog — another silent angel in the eternal digital night.

Jack: “You’re talking like this is a spiritual crisis.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t it? We’ve traded silence for signal. Stillness for scroll. We don’t pray anymore — we post.”

Jack: Leans forward, voice sharp. “And what’s wrong with that? At least people are speaking. At least they’re being heard.”

Jeeny: “Heard by who? Algorithms? Bots? Half the internet’s just echoes now — shouting into mirrors. Everyone’s performing happiness while drowning in comparison.”

Jack: “So what, Jeeny? You want us to go back to typewriters and landlines?”

Jeeny: “No. I just want us to remember that connection isn’t bandwidth. It’s breath.”

Host: The clock above the counter blinked 3:04 AM. A barista yawned behind the counter, refilling a machine that hissed like an exhausted dragon. The smell of burnt espresso hung in the air — sharp, familiar, human.

Jack: “You talk like time still means something. Online, there is no day or night, no pause. It’s... constant. You wake up in the middle of the night, check your phone — and it’s still there, glowing, talking, selling, wanting.”

Jeeny: “That’s what he meant — it’s always Christmas. Every day is wrapped in promises. New posts. New likes. New reasons to keep watching.”

Jack: “You make it sound like religion.”

Jeeny: “It is. The Church of the Infinite Scroll. The altar’s your feed, the prayers are your clicks, and the god’s always listening.”

Jack: Smirks. “Then maybe we deserve this heaven.”

Jeeny: “Or this hell.”

Host: Her voice cracked softly, the word hanging between them like static — fragile, real. Jack looked at her, something shifting behind his tired sarcasm — something like recognition.

Jeeny: “You remember how quiet the world used to be?”

Jack: Pauses. “Yeah. I miss that sound.”

Jeeny: “What sound?”

Jack: “Nothing. Just... nothing.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what freedom feels like.”

Jack: “Freedom’s expensive. The price is relevance.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe irrelevance is salvation.”

Host: The rain stopped, leaving a sheen of silver mist across the city. The neon reflections softened, the screens dimmed, and for a heartbeat — just one — it felt like time returned. The world breathed again.

Jack: “You think there’s a way back?”

Jeeny: “No. There’s only a way through.”

Jack: “And at the end?”

Jeeny: “Maybe peace. Maybe just... silence.”

Host: The TV cut to black. The last image: Lewis Black’s grin frozen mid-sentence, the caption still lingering — “It’s always Christmas.”

Jeeny closed her laptop, gently. Jack hesitated, then did the same. For a moment, the café filled with the rare sound of nothing — no beeps, no chimes, no voices. Just two people and the faint hum of the rain returning.

Jack: “Feels strange, doesn’t it?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “Being offline.”

Jeeny: Smiling faintly. “Maybe that’s what real time feels like.”

Host: The lights dimmed, the screens went dark, and outside, the first light of morning seeped through the clouds — pale, hesitant, pure.

Jack and Jeeny sat in the quiet, two souls unhooked from the endless pulse of the digital tide. The world, for once, had no notifications, no noise — only a soft, waking silence.

And in that silence, it wasn’t Christmas.
It was just time again.