She still gives me the same butterflies, after all these years.

Christmas was always my favourite holiday. I liked it when her family came over to our house and vice versa, our mothers chatting in the kitchen, our fathers talking about something to do with cars, and our brothers talking about the latest sports news.

And then us, always sitting cross-legged, opposite each other on her or my bed, dissecting movie plots. Christmas was always predictable, we always stuck to the same schedule, always did the same things, and it never seemed to get boring.

This Christmas was different though. We weren’t sitting cross-legged on her bedroom floor or my bed, we were standing opposite each other in the stairwell, staring at each other with the same wide eyes.

I had noticed the mistletoe before she had, she was holding a platter of hot chocolates, empty besides form the two, one for me, and one for her. I take my mug and clear my throat. She takes hers too, and I can see her visibly swallow.

“We, um, don’t have to-” I stammer, suddenly losing my ability to speak. She nods, then glances up at the red berries, then back down at me. She kisses my cheek out of nowhere, and walks past quickly, putting the platter back in the kitchen.

I stare blankly after her, stunned for a moment. I can feel the blood rushing to my ears, and I have to readjust my glasses, if only to do something with my hands.

I wait in her room, like always, sipping on the mug of hot chocolate that she handed me. I turn on all the lights, avoiding what she called ‘the big light’, and only switching on the multi-coloured fairy lights she puts up for Christmas.

She opens the door, smiling and with cookies, her family’s pet dog in tow. She sits opposite me, leaning back against the pillows. I watch her as she talks, almost transfixed by the way she talks so animatedly. It’s endearing, and I smile slightly.