DECEMBER 24TH

DECEMBER 24TH

Natalie opens a small brown oak kitchen cupboard; the bottom hinge is loose.

She knows this, but ignores it.

It’s filled with mugs and glasses, covered in cheesy designs and quotes.

She lifts out two mugs — one blue, one red — and places them on the counter.

She boils the kettle beside her.

Natalie stares at the mugs, adjusting them so they face the same way, as if symmetry might bring back what she’s lost.

She lifts a tub of instant hot chocolate. Scoops one spoonful into the blue mug, two into the red — followed by two spoonful's of sugar in each.

Milk, hot water, and whipped cream follow, topped off with mini marshmallows.

She enters her living room and sets the two mugs down on the glass coffee table in front of a cosy, decorated fireplace.

Two stockings hang from either side. Unlit candles line the mantel, along with three deliberately placed picture frames.

Natalie and her girlfriend… ex-girlfriend, Jennifer.

In every picture, they’re smiling. Happy.

Natalie can’t help but wonder what went wrong.

London, outside, is exactly how you might imagine it in December. Snow lines the streets and rooftops; children play in the cold, free of care or worry.

Natalie and Jennifer often talked about adopting, starting a family to share this time of year with.

A season that almost always brought them joy.

Was Jennifer still feeling joyful? Natalie wonders — but quickly disregards the thought.

She shakes her head and returns to what she’s doing, reaching for her phone and swiping to a playlist.

The way she moves is mechanical, like a well-trained machine — clockwork. Like she does this every year.

But this year is different. Hollow. Bitter.

The first song that plays is “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree."

Natalie pulls a large cardboard box out from under the stairs and carries it over, setting it down beside a tall, undecorated Christmas tree.

She opens the box. It’s filled with Christmas baubles and tangled lights.

She smiles — but there’s no real happiness behind it.

It’s a performance.

For who, she doesn’t know.

She begins decorating the tree, starting with the mismatched lights, followed by baubles of all different colours and sizes.

She hangs them carefully, as if placing even one in the wrong spot — if it’s different from last year —

Everything will fall apart, and she’ll be stuck in this feeling forever.

This feeling of hating everything around her.

Of feeling alone.

She shudders. She can’t bear the thought.

After what feels like a lifetime of endless Christmas songs, the box is finally empty.

Natalie stands there for a moment, admiring her work. And she’s right — the tree is a true testament to the Christmas spirit, even though hers is nearly depleted.

Whatever remained left with Jennifer.

Her eyes roam over the tree. Everything exactly as it should be.

But something is missing.

The star.

Natalie’s eyes stop on the empty space at the top of the tree.

Her mind races.

Her gaze drops to the empty box.

It isn’t there.

The tree is incomplete.

“Where could it be?” she mutters to herself as the next song plays on the playlist.

“Fairytale of New York.”

The song strikes a nerve. She shuts off the music and turns to the cupboard beneath the stairs, searching for the missing star…

Nothing. Empty.

She stops for a moment to think.

Then her mind clicks.

She moves to the staircase and starts ascending.

Finally, she reaches her bedroom door — where she and Jennifer would spend every night, curled into each other.

She opens the door and walks in, heading straight to the wardrobe.

The left side is full of clothes and shoes, hatboxes and jackets.

The right side is empty. Bare.

Jennifer’s side.

That’s where she searches, knowing Jennifer placed the star last year.

It isn’t there either.

“Did she take it?” Natalie asks herself.

“No… she wouldn’t have,” she reassures herself — before stepping out of the room and looking up at the loft hatch.

She knows it’s the most likely place for it to be — But she hates going up there.

Into the dark, spider-infested space, with weak floorboards that could give way beneath her at any moment.

Not to mention the ladders she’ll need to climb. And she really hates heights.

That’s why Jennifer usually went up there. She wasn’t scared of anything.

After a few moments of staring at the hatch, Natalie braces herself.

She fetches the ladders and begins to climb.

She does her best not to look down, knowing she’ll freeze if she does.

With shaking knees, she finally reaches the top.

She opens the hatch and stares into the darkness.

She pulls herself into the loft and flicks on the dim bulb — barely lighting the space at all.

There are plenty of boxes. It could be in any of them.

And there’s no shortage of cobwebs either — But she tries not to think about that as she walks over to the first box.

She kneels down and opens it. Old college books. Stationery supplies.

A nostalgic smile slips free as she remembers meeting Jennifer on her very first day of college. They hit it off straight away.

She thought it was love at first sight.

It’s a lovely memory — but it’s quickly replaced by the last three mornings of waking up alone.

The box is shut.

The next one holds old dresses from when Jennifer was trying to become a fashion designer. She was good — amazing, almost.

Natalie could never understand why none of the people Jennifer tried selling them to could see that.

But the star isn’t there either.

And then she sees it — across the room, in the corner, partially hidden behind a wooden beam.

A box labelled Christmas.

Relief washes over her.

She takes her time walking towards it, careful not to rush — in case the floorboards give way.

With every creak and groan, her heart races a little faster. She knows it’s an irrational fear, but she can’t help imagining two paramedics having a quiet chuckle at the woman who fell through her own ceiling.

She sits down in front of the box and opens it. It’s filled with tinsel, old broken baubles, and faded banners.

And at the bottom —

shining up at her —

a familiar, star-shaped tree topper.

That has to be it.

She reaches down. Pulls it free.

Stares at it.

It is a star…

but it isn’t the one she’s looking for.

This one is broken — half of it snapped clean off.

It’s the star her mother gave her on the first day she and Jennifer moved in together, five Decembers ago.

And then she remembers this box.

A box of scraps — Christmas items that had broken over the years.

Her face falls. The broken star slips from her hands and lands softly back in the box.

The star she was looking for had their initials on it — N + J.

The very first thing they replaced together. A symbol that everything can be fixed. Or replaced.

Natalie’s throat tightens.

She knows it’s silly — getting emotional over a stupid tree topper. But the tears come anyway.

DECEMBER 25TH

It’s Christmas night.

Natalie sits on her cream-coloured couch, Miracle on 34th Street playing quietly on the TV.

The room glows softly with coloured lights.

Her eyes drift to the top of the tree, where the broken star now sits — tilted slightly to one side.

It catches the light, flickering.

Natalie watches the film.

She doesn’t move.

Beneath the stairs, in a small cupboard, a white piece of paper lies hidden — half tucked under the carpet.

“I took the star. Hope you don’t mind.”

The note remains unseen.

The film continues without her attention.

The tree stays unfinished.

Natalie keeps watching.