December had finally arrived, and with it came the ice skating rink in the middle of the town square. Lights were strung between lampposts, Christmas music played softly in the background, and the air smelled like sugar and roasted chestnuts.

Your friends had been talking about skating since November. Every group chat message, every plan somehow circled back to December 24th. Christmas Eve.

So when the day finally came, you went too—even if you already knew how it would feel.

There were five of you. And somehow, you were always the extra space between them.

They laughed together, whispered together, took pictures together. You tried to join in—a comment here, a smile there—and sometimes they answered, sometimes they didn’t. When they did, it lasted only a few minutes before the circle closed again.

You’d tried talking about it before. I feel a little left out, you’d said once.

They smiled, offended. “You’re the one excluding yourself.” “We include you, you’re just distant.”

And suddenly, you were the problem.

You didn’t know how to skate. When you asked if they could help you, they shrugged. “We learned on our own.” And then they linked hands anyway, pushing each other forward, laughing when they almost fell—together.

So you were left with the railing.

You clung to it like it was the only thing keeping you upright—knees bent, torso forward, fingers numb from gripping too tightly. You fell once. Then twice. Then so many times you stopped counting. Each fall burned your palms and your pride a little more.

At some point, you let go of the railing. Just try, you told yourself.

You were moving slowly, shakily, but you were moving.

Then someone passed too close.

A shoulder brushed yours. Your blade slipped. Your balance disappeared.

You braced for the fall—the cold, the sting, the humiliation.

But it never came.

Instead, hands grabbed yours—firm, steady, warm—anchoring you before you could hit the ice. You gasped, heart racing, and looked up.

Sunghoon.

Park Sunghoon.

Everyone in town knew him—the boy who skated like the ice belonged to him. You’d seen him here countless times, spinning effortlessly, jumping, gliding like gravity didn’t apply to him. He was always calm, focused, beautiful in a way that didn’t seem real.

Up close, it was worse.

His dark hair was slightly damp, cheeks pink from the cold, eyes soft but sharp—like he noticed everything.

“You okay?” he asked, voice gentle.

You nodded quickly, embarrassed. “I—yeah. I just… lost balance.”

He didn’t let go of your hands. “You’re stiff,” he said with a small smile. “That makes it harder.”

“Oh,” you laughed nervously. “I’m kind of terrified.”

He smiled more then—not teasing, not amused. Just kind.

“Want help?” he asked.

You hesitated, glancing toward your friends. They were too busy laughing to notice you’d almost fallen.

You looked back at Sunghoon. “…Okay.”

Instead of moving behind you, he skated in front of you and gently took both your hands in his. Then, effortlessly, he began skating backwards, eyes focused on you, movements smooth and controlled.

“Just try to skate forward,” he said softly. “I’ve got you.”

You nodded, taking a careful step. Then another.

You slipped once, gasping—but his grip tightened immediately, steadying you before you could fall. A few moments later, you lost balance again, and again he caught you without hesitation.

Each time you faltered, he held you.

Slowly, your movements became less stiff. Less scared.

As you skated together under the Christmas lights, laughter and music swirling around you, you realized something quietly settled in your chest:

Sometimes, the people who see you the most are complete strangers.

And sometimes, Christmas Eve gives you exactly what you didn’t know you needed.