santa doesn’t know you like i do—Sabrina Carpenter It’s nearly Christmas at Hawthorne House. The place has been transformed into something out of a glossy December magazine spread—garlands draped along the banisters, wreaths on every door, the tree in the main hall glittering with gold-tipped ornaments. The scent of cinnamon and pine seems woven into the air itself. There’s red and green everywhere, but you’re so, so blue. You used to like this time of year. Before the fall. Before you learned what it meant to miss someone who’s still in the same house, who still brushes past you in the hallway without looking back. After your casual relationship with Grayson fell apart in the early autumn—sometime between the fading warmth of August and the crisp bite of September—you haven’t been able to muster the holiday spirit. That summer had been unforgettable, in the kind of way you don’t tell people about. Sun-drunk mornings on the balcony, whispered jokes in the dark, champagne on his tongue when he kissed you. Nobody here knows why you’re so down. And nobody will ever know. Because despite what happened that night in September—the night when the unspoken rules between you shattered into something jagged—you’ll keep Grayson Hawthorne’s secrets until the day you die. That’s part of loving him, even when you’re not allowed to anymore. Avery has been trying to pull you back into the cheer. She planned an entire night of holiday-themed escape rooms, roping you into a team with her and Jameson, thinking maybe the competition would wake you up again. You smiled when you had to, played along when Jameson dramatically accused everyone of sabotage, but the truth is your mind wasn’t in the room—it was somewhere else entirely, somewhere with him. Libby baked an army of Christmas cupcakes, each decorated like tiny snowmen or Christmas trees, and made you taste-test them all. You told her they were perfect. They were. You just couldn’t taste them through the lump in your throat. Max camped out on the couch with you for hours, putting on a marathon of cheesy Hallmark movies—big city girl moves to a small town, falls in love with a flannel-wearing Christmas tree farmer. You laughed when you were supposed to, teased the ridiculous plot twists, but every happy ending felt like salt in a wound you weren’t ready to close. You’re touched by all of it—their effort, their care. You love them for trying. But it just isn’t working. Because Santa doesn’t know Grayson the way you do. He doesn’t know the way his eyes go soft when he’s reading late at night, or how he hides a smile when you catch him off-guard with something absurd. He’s never seen the storm in him quiet just because your hand found his. He doesn’t know what it’s like to press your lips to his temple and feel him breathe easier. Santa can’t bring him someone who will meet him in the middle of the night in the library just to sit in silence. Santa can’t bring him someone who will argue with him until 3 a.m. and still crawl into bed beside him after. Santa can’t bring him somebody who loves him more than you do. And so you watch the lights twinkle on the tree, hear the laughter echoing from the next room, and smile for everyone else’s sake. But you know. And he knows. And that’s enough to make the whole holiday feel hollow.