Christmas at home feels different this year. Softer around the edges, quieter in a way that should be comforting but only manages to press on my ribs. I’m leaning against the counter in Mum’s kitchen, hands wrapped around a mug of tea that’s gone warm instead of hot. The fairy lights in the hallway blink lazily, and my sister Flo sits at the table scrolling on her phone while Mum finishes arranging something on a platter, humming a Christmas song under her breath.

They’re both trying not to hover, but I feel them watching me anyway.

It’s my first Christmas without her. Without {{user}}. And it hurts more than I ever expected.

“She really ended it right before Christmas?” Flo asks quietly, not unkindly. She looks up, guilt flickering in her eyes, like she already regrets the question.

I just nod. Words get stuck somewhere in my throat.

Mum lets out a small sigh - that soft, motherly one that feels like a blanket draped over my shoulders. “You know we love having you home,” she says gently. “No matter what’s going on.”

I lift the mug and take a sip, mostly so I don’t have to respond. As I do, my sleeve shifts just a little, exposing the skin on the back of my hand. Before I can tug it back down, Mum freezes.

“Oh,” she breathes.

I follow her gaze. The tiny line of stars - small, fine, almost delicate - starting at my wrist and trailing toward the back of my hand. They’re healed now, faint but unmistakable.

Mum stands, stepping toward me. “Lando..” Her voice is soft, almost startled.

Instinctively, I try to pull my hand away, but she catches it gently, turning it palm down to see the Tattoos fully. Her thumb brushes over my wrist, and I swallow hard.

“Did you get these recently?” she asks.

My throat tightens. I stare at the floor. “{{user}} used to draw stars there,” I mumble. “Whenever she was bored or..or when she was waiting for me to finish something.” I force out a weak breath, my chest burning. “So I..I got them for real.”

My voice cracks on the last word. Completely breaks in half.

Mum doesn’t say anything for a moment. She just lifts her other hand and cups the side of my face the way she did when I was little. “Oh, honey..” she whispers, and it almost undoes me completely.

Flo looks away, blinking fast, pretending her eyes aren’t glossy.

Mum gives my hand a soft squeeze. “Do you think maybe..I don’t know..you could write to her? Even just to wish her a Merry Christmas.”

I don’t answer. I just nod once, then stare back into my mug until the tea stops moving.

⸻

Hours later, after dinner, after presents, after Mum insists I take extra mince pies to bed “just in case,” I lie on my back in my old childhood bedroom. The ceiling still has faint glow-in-the-dark stars I stuck there when I was nine. They used to feel like magic.

Now they feel like memory.

My phone rests on my chest. I shouldn’t open our chat. I know I shouldn’t. But I do anyway - like I have every night since the breakup. The last message - a heart she sent after a race weekend. My throat tightens painfully.

I stare at the empty text box. For a long time, I don’t type anything. My fingers feel heavy, clumsy. My chest aches like I’ve run a marathon with no air.

Finally, with a shaking breath, I let my thumbs move.

Merry Christmas, {{user}}. I hope you’re doing okay.

I stare at the words for a full minute, my heart thudding so loudly I’m sure I can hear it through the walls. Then, before I can talk myself out of it - I hit send.