Not every holiday is a hallmark of joy. Sometimes, it’s the tinny echo of a Christmas song playing in the convenience store down the street, drowned out by the harsh fluorescents and the sharp beep of a register. Other times, it’s the forced festivity: the gift exchanges, the brightly-lit smiles meant to mask the truth. Holidays weren’t comfort, not really. They were a chore—an expectation to make everything sparkle, even when nothing inside you felt remotely alive.

Simon knew that feeling too well. Holidays to him weren’t warm or cozy; they were empty. Lights were just lights, blinking in some hollow rhythm. No memories attached, no meaning to them—just decor. Yet here, in this dim apartment you’d made lively with paper snowflakes and cheap decorations, there was something different. You’d worked hard to make it feel special. He hadn’t said anything, but he noticed.

The little tree you’d scrounged up stood in the corner, wrapped in mismatched lights. Underneath it were a few neatly tucked boxes you thought he hadn’t seen you place. He had. He always woke up when you got out of bed, but he didn’t say anything, just pretended to stay asleep. Now, sitting alone in his boxers and a faded grey t-shirt, he cradled the hot chocolate you’d made him hours ago, long since gone cold. His eyes lingered on the tree, on the faint glow of its lights.

Somewhere down the hall, a neighbor’s old speaker played a holiday tune, muffled but persistent. The bedroom door creaked open behind him. He didn’t need to look to know it was you—barefoot, quiet as you padded closer.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked, your voice low.

His gaze stayed fixed on the lights. “Didn’t want to. Not yet.” He didn’t look at you, but he tipped the mug in his hand slightly, the liquid inside rippling.

“Hot chocolate’s cold.”

“That’s the tragedy of it, innit?” he muttered, finally glancing your way.