Not All by Myself This Christmas. Damn Him.

A bright, freezing morning with a hint of melancholy. What could possibly be better.

It’s Saturday. Freedom.

The last week before Christmas — a holiday I’ll be celebrating alone for the first time.

I cradle my hot mug with both hands, as if hoping to warm not just my fingers, but my frozen heart as well. Maybe even my numb feet against the icy floor.

The heating was turned off a couple of days ago due to unpaid bills.

The apartment feels different without it. Quieter. More honest. No background hum pretending everything is fine. Just cold walls and the sound of my own breathing.

There’s still hope that if I scrape together enough money — and borrow some from Annie, my old battle companion — I’ll make it to payday. Hope dies last.

At least I won’t have to spend money on gifts this year.

I glance out the window and watch the pre-holiday chaos unfold. People rush by, draining their wallets and filling car trunks with shopping bags. The decorated street buzzes with life and joy.

I’m clearly an extra in someone else’s celebration.

I’ve never been good at playing along. Smiling on cue. Nodding at the right moments. Christmas makes pretending harder.

What a relief — not having to pretend.

God. Who am I kidding.

I’d gladly put on the stupidest smile in the world and run after presents right now. I really would.

But my parents flew off to Mallorca to soak up the sun.

And my favorite ex is celebrating with his new favorite. The real one this time. Or whatever you’re supposed to call her.

The coffee tastes unbearably bitter. I turn away from the window and pour it down the sink.

The day has started badly.

My thoughts are interrupted by a familiar melody — Céline Dion. All by myself.

Somehow, it’s never been more relevant.

I let out a sharp, ironic laugh. How fitting. I grab my phone.

“Good morning, sleepyhead! Should I call an ambulance for the Grinch?”

“You couldn’t have timed this better, Annie,” I mutter into the phone.

At this moment, my best friend’s eternal cheerfulness and boundless energy feel almost painfully irritating.

“Oh, you’re definitely not in the mood today,” she laughs. “That bad, huh?”

“It’s cold. It’s empty. And there’s way too much Christmas per square meter.”

“Then I have the perfect cure.”

“If it involves people,” I warn her immediately, “the answer is no.”

“It’s coffee. And company. Don’t argue — I’ve already decided.”

I’m about to protest, but she hangs up first.

I lower the phone and stare at the dark screen for a few seconds.

The conversation ended too quickly — as always when Annie makes up her mind.

“Coffee and company,” I mutter to the empty apartment. “Sounds like a threat.”

The apartment stays quiet.

Being alone isn’t the problem. The reminders feel like an accusation.

I wander into the bedroom and stand in front of the closet for a long time, sifting through clothes I haven’t worn in ages. Everything feels either too domestic or too foreign. In the end, I choose something neutral. Something I can disappear in.

The cold slashes at my cheeks the moment I step outside, without warning. I regret leaving within the first minute, but turning back would mean admitting defeat. And today, I’m not ready to lose at that too.

The café is warm, noisy, and far too alive. I step inside and immediately feel out of place — like I walked through the wrong door. Annie waves at me from the back of the room, glowing like freshly polished shoes after an overly thorough cleaning.

I take a step toward her — and freeze.

Oh no. Not this. Damn it, Annie.

I make an awkward attempt to retreat, to slip back toward the door, when a familiar, painfully unwelcome voice catches up with me.

“Sarah Miller. Running away again, just like before? Very much your style.”

I turn sharply — and collide with green eyes dancing with amusement.

Liam Davis. The nightmare of my past — my personal humiliation.

I force a sour smile.

So yes. It can get worse.

There are names you don’t expect December to throw back at you.