Prologue
I’ve never been one to love the holidays. There, I said it. For most people, this time of year means twinkling lights, cheerful carols, and hot cocoa by the fire. For me, it’s more like a glaring spotlight, highlighting everything I don’t have. Families gathered together around crackling fireplaces. Couples skating hand in hand on frozen ponds. The clinking of glasses at Christmas parties where everyone seems so effortlessly happy.
It’s not that I don’t understand why people love it. I do. It’s the nostalgia, the traditions, the idea of everything being perfect for just a little while. But for me, it’s hard to buy into the magic of the season when it feels like nothing in my life fits into that perfect picture.
It didn’t start out this way. There was a time when Christmas felt magical. I still remember the glow of the lights on our tree and the way my parents used to laugh together as we decorated. My dad would lift me onto his shoulders to place the star on top, and my mom would make hot cocoa with an unreasonable amount of whipped cream. I’d wake up on Christmas morning to the smell of cinnamon rolls baking in the oven and the sight of snow falling outside our window.
But things change. Little by little, the laughter faded. First, it was the quiet tension—strained smiles and awkward silences over dinner. Then, the arguments started. They were quiet at first, just sharp words exchanged behind closed doors. But over time, they grew louder, harder to ignore.
By the time I was twelve, my parents were barely speaking. Christmas mornings turned into awkward exchanges of presents before they disappeared into separate corners of the house. I learned to pretend everything was fine when I was at school, but at home, the magic was gone. By the time they finally divorced, I wasn’t even surprised.
Since then, I’ve spent most of my life avoiding the holidays as much as possible. I made a promise to myself: no big celebrations, no family dinners, no elaborate plans. I’d focus on things I could control—school, work, my future. And for the most part, it’s worked.
This year, though, it feels harder.
It’s the week before Christmas, and campus is already starting to feel like a ghost town. Students are dragging suitcases across the quad, saying goodbye to friends and making last-minute plans before heading home. My best friend Jess is leaving tomorrow for her family’s cabin, where she’ll spend the holiday skiing, baking cookies, and basking in the kind of warmth that only exists in Hallmark movies. She keeps trying to convince me to join her.
“You’ll have fun,” she says every time we talk. “It’ll be good for you.”
But I know myself too well to believe her. I’ve never been good at pretending to be cheerful just because it’s what the season demands. Jess doesn’t understand that. She grew up in a big, noisy family where love was a given, not something you had to fight for. For her, the holidays are easy.
My parents had promised to visit this year. I wasn’t holding my breath. They’ve made the same promise before, and it always ends the same way—with a phone call, an apology, and some vague excuse about work or other obligations. Sure enough, the call came last week. “We’ll try next year,” my mom had said, her voice bright and breezy, as if that somehow softened the blow.
So now I’m here, in my dorm room, while the rest of the world is lighting up with holiday cheer. My desk is cluttered with notes and textbooks, my headphones block out the faint sounds of laughter echoing from the halls, and my coffee mug is lukewarm. I’ve told myself this is exactly what I want: a quiet few weeks to get ahead on my final project and avoid the chaos of Christmas altogether.
But even as I tell myself that, the silence feels heavier than it should.
I glance at my phone. Jess has sent me another message, no doubt another attempt to pull me out of my self-imposed isolation.
Jess: “Still holed up in your dorm? You’re going to turn into a hermit if you’re not careful.”
I roll my eyes and type back a quick reply.
Me: “Better a hermit than being stuck with family drama for the holidays.”
Her reply is almost immediate.
Jess: “Come on. Not every holiday has to be about family. Maybe this year, you’ll find something—or someone—that makes it special.”
I laugh under my breath, shaking my head. Jess is a hopeless romantic. She’s always believed in the idea of love as this magical, transformative thing. Me? I’ve seen enough to know better. Love is messy. It’s fragile. It’s the thing that turns happy Christmas mornings into tense silences and eventually into divorce papers.
Still, her words linger longer than I expect them to.
I close my laptop and lean back in my chair, staring out the window. The snow is falling softly, coating the campus in a blanket of white. It looks peaceful, I suppose. Serene. But instead of filling me with warmth, it just makes me feel more alone.
Part of me wonders if Jess is right. What would it be like to let go, just for a moment? To stop holding so tightly to the walls I’ve built? The thought is tempting, but I can’t afford to think that way. Not now.
I grab my coat and scarf, wrapping them tightly around me before stepping out into the cold. My textbooks are waiting for me in the library, and that’s where I’ll stay for the next few weeks. Books are predictable, reliable. They don’t let you down.
As I walk across the snowy quad, the quiet presses in around me. The campus is almost completely deserted now, and the empty buildings feel strangely hollow. I should feel relieved—after all, this is what I wanted. No distractions, no drama, just me and my work.
But as I push open the heavy doors of the library and step inside, I can’t shake the feeling that something is missing.
The library is just as quiet as the rest of campus, the faint hum of fluorescent lights the only sound. I head to my usual corner, a small table tucked away near the philosophy section, and settle in with my books. The familiar routine is comforting, and for a while, I lose myself in the pages.
But then, out of the corner of my eye, I notice someone else.
He’s leaning against one of the shelves, scanning the spines of the books with no real urgency. His posture is relaxed, his movements unhurried, like he has all the time in the world. I recognize him from my philosophy class—Ben.
I’ve seen him around campus before. He’s the type of guy who always looks like he just stepped out of a snowboarding ad, all easy charm and effortless confidence. The kind of guy who never has to try too hard at anything.
I turn back to my books, trying to ignore him. But something about the way he moves, the way he seems so completely unbothered by the weight of the world, sticks with me.
And that’s when it hits me—this holiday season might not be as quiet and predictable as I’d planned.
