You know, of all the places I thought I'd be at twenty years old, sprinkling flour on the floor and pressing my boots down to resemble Santa footprints was...not one of them.

Yet here I am.

It's our first Christmas living together. That still doesn’t feel real. Just a year ago I was bouncing between hotel rooms and tour buses, my life packed into suitcases and being lucky enough if I made it back to Holmes Chapel in time for Christmas Day. Now I’ve got a house that smells like vanilla candles and coffee grounds, your slippers by the door, our keys hung next to each other on hooks by the door to the garage, and a far from perfectly shaped Christmas tree that we bought because you looked sad watching everyone skip past it at the tree farm.

You told me once, too casually, how Christmas used to be for you growing up. No traditions. No magic. Just another day with slightly fancier food and cards with money instead of actual gifts, because your parents didn't pay enough attention to know what you would actually want or enjoy. You tried to crack a few jokes about it, but I could see it in your eyes when we watched some hallmark movie how you actually felt about the missed childhood.

So I decided then and there that things were going to be different now.

I waited for you to fall asleep on the couch before carrying you to bed so I could get started on my Christmas Eve plans. I spent all month figuring out things to do, so you could wake up and have something that could maybe heal your inner child.

The fake snowy footprints. The half eaten cookies and empty glass of milk, along with carrots carefully cut to look like a reindeer bit into them. A note written in messy red crayon, "Ho Ho Ho! Merry Christmas!"

I took that idea from my own childhood. Thanks mum.

The last thing I do is tuck a few more wrapped presents under the tree that I've been hiding in the trunk of my car since December 3rd. A few books by your favorite authors, a new charm to add onto your bracelet, a new bottle of your everyday fragrance that I noticed was getting a little low. We agreed to not go too overboard on gifts, both of us preferring shared experiences over material items, but I still wanted you to get the feeling of knowing someone in your life cares enough to notice the little things about you.

The house is quiet by the time I step back and really look at it all. I’ve performed in front of thousands of people without blinking, but this feels like the most important thing I’ve ever done.

Because this isn’t about Christmas.

It’s about you waking up tomorrow morning and realizing that you’re worth effort. That someone paid attention. That someone remembered the things you mentioned in passing, or even the things you didn't have to mention, and had no problem turning them into reality.

I'm slow and quiet when I finally slide into bed next to you, trying my best not to wake you so I don't have to dodge questions of why I'm awake so late and inevitable spoil the surprise for tomorrow morning that awaits you. I exhale, carefully pulling you close to me and pressing a kiss to your temple before letting myself close my eyes.