The only thing I liked about Christmas as a kid was the gifts;

Host: The apartment was dim, lit only by the orange glow of a single lamp and the faint twinkle of a half-decorated Christmas tree standing awkwardly by the window.
Outside, the city hummed — distant sirens, laughter, the echo of traffic sliding across wet asphalt. The kind of Christmas Eve that felt more like endurance than celebration.

The room smelled faintly of coffee and pine, though both were fading — the coffee cold, the pine already shedding its needles.
Jack sat on the couch, elbows on his knees, staring at a small pile of unopened gifts.
Across from him, Jeeny leaned against the window, her reflection shimmering over the city lights, her eyes distant but soft.

Jeeny: “Lake Bell once said, ‘The only thing I liked about Christmas as a kid was the gifts; otherwise, it just seemed like a stressful time.’”

Jack: (dryly) “Finally, someone tells the truth.”

Jeeny: “You never liked Christmas either?”

Jack: “No. I liked the idea of it — the version they sell in movies. But the real thing? Chaos in wrapping paper. People pretending to be happier than they are.”

Jeeny: “You sound like every disillusioned adult.”

Jack: “Maybe because I was a disillusioned kid.”

Host: A car horn blared below, echoing briefly against the building. The light on the tree blinked unevenly — one bulb out, the rhythm broken, like a heartbeat skipping every third beat.

Jeeny: “Lake Bell called it stressful. That word says more than people realize. For a holiday that’s supposed to bring peace, it sure teaches anxiety early.”

Jack: “Yeah. The pressure to smile. The obligation to enjoy. Everyone’s holding their breath, trying not to disappoint tradition.”

Jeeny: “And trying not to disappoint family.”

Jack: “Exactly. It’s not celebration — it’s performance. Everyone playing roles written decades ago.”

Host: The sound of a radiator kicked in — an old machine groaning with effort. The heat rose slowly, unevenly, like reluctant comfort.

Jeeny: “It’s strange how that works, though. You grow up thinking the gifts will fix it — that the paper and ribbons can cover the silence.”

Jack: “And then one day you realize the silence is the most honest part.”

Jeeny: “You ever have one good Christmas?”

Jack: “Yeah. Once. I was maybe eight. My mom forgot to buy wrapping paper, so she used newspaper instead. It was the first time I saw her laugh in months. It wasn’t the gift that mattered — it was the sound of that laugh. It felt… unforced.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “So even cynics keep a secret memory of warmth.”

Jack: “It’s not warmth I remember. It’s relief. Like for a few seconds, we stopped pretending Christmas meant joy.”

Host: Jeeny moved to the couch, sitting beside him. She reached down and turned one of the unopened boxes over in her hands. The tag read simply, “To J.” — written in uneven pen.

Jeeny: “You know, I think that’s what Lake Bell was talking about. As a kid, all you can control are the gifts — the one thing you’re allowed to touch, open, claim as yours. Everything else — the tension, the noise, the arguments — belongs to the adults.”

Jack: “Yeah. You hold on to what’s yours, even if it’s just a toy that breaks by New Year’s.”

Jeeny: “And when you grow up, you realize you’ve inherited the same stress. Only now you’re the one faking the magic.”

Jack: “Exactly. And buying the paper to wrap what can’t really be given.”

Host: The two sat quietly for a while. Outside, snow began to fall, slow and deliberate — each flake illuminated in the orange glow of the streetlights. Inside, the air felt softer somehow.

Jeeny: “It’s funny. For a holiday built on love, it really teaches expectation more than affection.”

Jack: “And debt more than gratitude.”

Jeeny: “But you still bought gifts.”

Jack: “Out of habit.”

Jeeny: “Or hope.”

Jack: (pausing) “Maybe those are the same thing.”

Host: The snow thickened, whispering softly against the glass. The city sounds faded beneath its weight. For a moment, everything felt suspended — the world caught between noise and stillness.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe stress is the shadow of love. We only stress about the people we care about. About trying to make things right, even when we can’t.”

Jack: “So, Christmas stress is just love clumsily disguised.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The mess before the meaning.”

Jack: “Then maybe that’s okay. Maybe we’re not supposed to find it peaceful. Maybe it’s supposed to hurt a little — so we notice when it doesn’t.”

Host: Jeeny smiled, leaning back, her eyes following a snowflake that melted instantly against the window.

Jeeny: “You ever think gifts are our way of saying what we can’t in words?”

Jack: “Yeah. Wrapping paper’s just emotional armor.”

Jeeny: “And unwrapping’s a kind of surrender.”

Jack: “You’re poetic when you’re sad.”

Jeeny: “Everyone is.”

Host: The light from the small tree flickered again, one bulb sparking briefly back to life — weak but steady. It cast a faint shimmer over their faces, softening everything that had hardened in their words.

Jack: “You know, Lake Bell wasn’t wrong. Christmas is stressful. But maybe that’s what makes it human. The friction, the imperfection. It’s not divine peace — it’s messy grace.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s proof we’re still trying, even when it hurts.”

Jack: “Trying to give more than we can, to love louder than we know how.”

Jeeny: “That’s the real gift, I think. Not the objects — the attempt.”

Host: The radiator hissed again, the snow outside falling thicker now. The city seemed to dim around them, the glow from the tree painting the walls in warm trembling color.

And in that small, imperfect quiet, Lake Bell’s words drifted through the air — no longer complaint, but confession:

That childhood joy is often wrapped in confusion,
that even the brightest holidays carry shadows,
and that beneath every stress,
there hides the tender ache of love.

That perhaps the beauty of Christmas
isn’t in the gifts,
but in the effort to make meaning
out of the noise.

Host: Jeeny reached out and nudged one of the boxes toward him.

Jeeny: “You should open one.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Nah. Maybe tomorrow.”

Jeeny: “Tomorrow’s just another day. This moment’s the gift.”

Host: He looked at her for a long moment — the snow, the light, the silence — then nodded.

Jack: “Alright. But you’re opening one too.”

Jeeny: “Deal.”

Host: They tore at the paper slowly, almost reverently.
The room filled not with laughter or surprise,
but with something quieter — the rare, fragile feeling of peace,
earned rather than given.

Outside, the snow kept falling —
soft, unhurried, forgiving —
as if the night itself understood what they had finally learned:

That even in the stress,
there is grace,
and in the wanting,
there is love.