Snow fell in silent. The fireplace crackled, casting dancing shadows across the dining table where you and Jake sat in your usual silence. A single candle flickered between your small, stubborn attempt at warmth.

It was Christmas Eve.

You’d roasted a turkey. Prepared chestnut stuffing. Even baked a spiced pear tart, the way you’d once read Catherine loved. You wore the emerald dress he’d bought you but never complimented. All day, you’d wrapped the house in the illusion of a home—pine garlands, cinnamon sticks, soft carols humming through the speakers.

Jake hadn’t noticed.

He cut into his turkey with surgical precision, his eyes distant, untouched by the twinkling lights.

“It’s snowing,” you said quietly, your voice softer than the fire’s whisper.

He didn’t look up.

You took a slow breath. “Jake…”

His knife stilled. The silver glinted like ice in the candlelight.

“Don’t.” The word was quiet, cold, final. “Don’t pretend this is something it’s not.”

You swallowed. “I’m not pretending. I just thought… it’s Christmas.”

He set the knife down. “Christmas,” he repeated, as though the word were a joke. His gaze lifted, sharp enough to cut. “Catherine loved Christmas.”

The air left your lungs. Of course she did.

“She’d fill this house with music. Real music—not this… background noise.” His eyes swept over the garlands, the wreath, the careful arrangements you’d spent hours on. “She didn’t have to try. It came naturally to her.”

You sat very still, your chest tight.

“You can hang all the mistletoe you want,” he said, rising from his chair. “But you’ll never be the one I want to kiss under it.”

He walked out, leaving you alone in the perfect winter scene you’d built. A beautiful, empty stage with no one to play the part beside you.

Snow continued to fall outside, burying the world in quiet. Today of the fire, you’d never felt so cold.