The Journal

It was November 15th, and Christmas had already crept into every corner of Paris. The lights hung in soft arches above the street, casting a warm glow over the cobblestones like little scattered stars. Shop windows sparkled—stuffed bears, golden ornaments, and sweets dusted with sugar. I stopped for a moment, watching a little girl press her nose to the glass of a toy store, eyes wide with wonder at a giant stuffed bear.

That could’ve been me. Years ago. Dreaming of the perfect Christmas morning.

The air was crisp, sharp enough to sting my cheeks, but I didn’t mind. I’ve always loved this time of year. Even now, as an adult, I still feel that familiar pull in my chest—the anticipation, the hope. For me, Christmas doesn’t begin on December 1st. It begins the second I can justify dragging the tree out of storage and stringing the lights, even if it’s mid-November.

At home, it was warm. Cinnamon and orange filled the apartment as I stood back and looked at the tree I’d just finished decorating. The soft glow of the multicolored lights danced across the walls. Outside, the city rushed on, but in here, time slowed.

I picked up a red ornament, held it up to the light, then carefully hung it on the tree. Red and gold. Always red and gold. Luke used to tease me about it.

“Do they really need to be two inches apart?” he’d ask, pretending to measure with his fingers.

I laughed so hard that day. One of those moments when your heart swells and you think—this, this is what happiness feels like.

He never minded that I started early. In fact, for a while, he leaned into it—handing me ornaments, fluffing the branches, and playing my cheesy Christmas playlist. It was our little tradition. I thought we were building something.

But even as I stood there now, alone in the quiet, that warmth lingered. The kind I’ve been chasing since I was a kid.

Back then, Christmas didn’t just mean presents or decorations. It was a whole season of magic. Our little house on Rue Jean Sébastien Bach transformed every December. My parents, Alain and Constance, made sure of that. They’d take two weeks off—every year without fail. It was the one time of year I had their full attention. And I soaked up every second.

The tree was always real—my dad brought it home on the first Saturday of the month. I’d wait by the door, bouncing on my toes as he tried to squeeze it through the hallway.

“Careful, Dad!” I’d squeal, watching needles scatter.

Then came the ornaments. Unwrapping them felt like opening treasure. My glittery snowman from kindergarten. The delicate angel from my grandmother. And my favorite: the golden star. The one they bought the year I was born. “For our little miracle,” my mom would whisper as she handed it to me.

Dad would lift me onto his shoulders to place it at the top. Every single year.

The kitchen was Mom’s kingdom. Gingerbread, cinnamon, music drifting from the radio. I’d pull up a chair and ask, “Can I help?”

She’d always pause, dramatically. “Hmm… decorating cookies is serious business. Are you ready for that kind of responsibility?”

I’d nod like my life depended on it.

Evenings were my favorite—especially Christmas Eve. We didn’t wait until Christmas morning for gifts. Ours were opened at 8 p.m. sharp, after a dinner lit by candles and the clink of wine glasses.

Dad would read The Night Before Christmas. Mom would tell stories from her childhood. I’d sit there, cross-legged by the tree, my heart about to burst. There was always a box with my name on it. Always something perfect. Something I’d been dreaming of.

Then came the snow. I’d wake early, run to the window, and when the world outside was blanketed in white, it felt like Christmas had come again.

We’d bundle up. Make snowmen. Have snowball fights. My mom—ever the graceful one—would supervise in a wool scarf, pretending not to notice when I nailed her with a snowball. Then we’d go back inside, cocoa in hand, and eat her warm apple pie.

When it all ended—when the tree came down and the lights were packed away—I never felt sad. Because those moments stayed with me. They still do.

But as I got older, things changed. My parents got busier. There were no more cookie sessions, no more late-night stories. Christmas got quieter. Quicker. A dinner, a few presents, and a polite promise to “spend more time next year.”

I tried to hold on. I played the music. I decorated the tree by myself. Smiled even when it felt hollow. Because that joy I once knew? I wasn’t ready to let it go.

That’s probably why I still do it all. The early tree. The perfect ornaments. The baking. Not because I think I can bring back the past. But because it reminds me who I used to be—when everything felt warm, and whole, and possible.

The night everything changed with Luke, the air felt colder than usual. We were walking home, side by side, but the silence was loud—too loud. I kept trying to say something, anything, but nothing landed right.

He walked with his hands deep in his pockets, his face unreadable. And I just kept looking at him, feeling him slip further and further away.

“Luke, please,” I said, my voice barely holding. “Talk to me. I don’t understand. What happened to us?”

He stopped. Looked at me.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he said quietly. “I don’t know how to fix this.”

His words stung. Not because they were cruel, but because they were true.

“I want you to try,” I said. “We used to try. We used to care.”

He exhaled, eyes flickering. “I haven’t given up on you,” he said. “But I think I’ve given up on us.”

And that… that broke me.

I didn’t cry—not then. I couldn’t. But inside, it felt like the ground had disappeared. Like I was falling through memories I didn’t want to let go of.

“I think we need some space,” I said. “Maybe… maybe it’s time we stop pretending.”

He nodded. “I’m sorry, Anna. I wish it were different.”

“Me too,” I whispered.

When I got home, everything looked the same—the tree glowing softly, the kitchen still smelling of cinnamon—but it all felt like a memory. Like I was standing in someone else’s life.

Luke’s jacket still hung on the back of the chair. His books sat in a neat stack on the coffee table. His mug is in the sink.

But he wasn’t coming back.

The days that followed were a blur. I worked. Smiled when I had to. Made it through. But inside, I was numb.

People say time heals. Maybe it does. But right now, all I have is the familiar rhythm of the holiday season. The lights. The music. The scent of cookies baking in the oven.

I keep going. I keep decorating. I keep holding onto the pieces that made me who I am. Not because it fixes everything—but because it helps me remember. And remembering, somehow, keeps me standing.

Maybe the magic will find me again. Maybe not.

But for now, I keep trying.

Because even in the middle of loss, the heart still hopes.