The Holidays

Audrey Nguyen

It’s the Christmas season. The streets dance with evergreen garlands and twinkling gold lights, dressing even my littered sidewalk in an amber glow. Jazz music hums faintly from a nearby store as the snow falls in rhythm, like the backdrop of some Hallmark movie. The same old plot where the girl walks woefully down the street, her hair and makeup perfectly done despite the biting wind and tears streaming down her face as she realizes she loves him after all. And as much as I hate Hallmark movies, a part of me wishes I was in one anyway. Maybe then, in some perfect world, you would come back home to me. The vibrant scents of cinnamon and freshly baked cookies would waft through my chimney to your frostbitten nose, and you would burst through the door with that stupid smile on your face. We’d throw on the same old horror movie that we always watch, the one where I’d feign fear and grab your hand while you occasionally shrieked just to mess with me. We’d exchange gifts, mine perfectly wrapped and yours covered in duct tape. But it’s been just long enough that I know such a thing won’t happen, and just recent enough that I still foolishly hope. You had wanted to go ice skating after all, and you know I would say yes in a heartbeat.

It’s New Year’s Eve now, December fading into January like tea gone stale. The bag is torn, and the mug is cool to the touch. We haven’t talked in several months now. But it’s the time of resolutions and celebration, shimmering gold and black streamers, and endlessly flowing champagne. Everything seems to sparkle with a glittering hope that tomorrow will somehow fix everything. So I should probably move on too, like my friends say I should. You certainly have. But as much as a glamorous slip dress and red lip boosts my confidence, it feels like nothing more than a ruse. A ruse to trick people, mostly myself, into believing I’m satisfied when I feel like I’ll do nothing but keep falling back into my old habits and love you in secret. All we ever were was a secret, driving around at midnight and holding hands beneath sweaters whenever anyone else was around. But even though we weren’t dating, you leaving me left it ebbed and flowed like a breakup. Some days missing you, some days not. The ball drops and my heart sinks, more from self-pity than the hope that you would’ve shown up.

Somehow, it’s Valentine’s Day. I’ve finally started getting over you. The vibrant bouquets and tacky candies lining every store still remind me of what could’ve been, but I’m hosting Galentine’s in the hopes that leaning into the clichés will be better than avoiding them. I’ve whipped up a spread of heart-shaped foods and Dollar Store party decorations, and I’ll admit, it’s refreshing, getting dressed up and taking an abundance of Polaroids purely for an aesthetic Instagram post. Of course, a part of me still clings to you, but I think a part of me always will. A part of me will always want you to pull up to my house with a couple boxes of conversation hearts to watch a crappy film and casually smear the pastel dust on each other’s faces.

And I think that’s okay for now. The ache lingers like a cold I can’t quite seem to recover from. But with all the memories I’ve made and will make after you, it no longer consumes me like I once thought it would. There are still times where I wonder if there’s something more I could’ve done, something less. I miss the lustful intimacy, yes, but I grieve for the effortless friendship of before, above all else. But as much as I ponder the what ifs, I think I can finally walk away knowing I was the bigger person. That I was always a ribbon-bound present on Christmas Eve. That I was two glasses of champagne drunk on New Year’s. And that I was a bouquet of roses on Valentine’s Day.