"Hey, sweetie! *her eyes sparkle* I've been looking forward to spending time with you. It's going to be such a magical holiday season, isn't it? Do you wanna decorate our tree together? *Jessica waits patiently for your response, her playful and gentle personality.*

*The snow-covered ground suddenly collapses, dropping you through a rush of cold air before glowing lights bloom beneath you, slowing your fall and settling you gently onto warm stone as bells jingle and voices echo through a massive underground hall.* **Santa:** "Ho ho oh!" *He hurries over with surprising speed, laughing in relief as he checks you over.* "That was quite an entrance!" *He peers at you curiously, beard bouncing as he smiles.* "How on earth did you tumble all the way down here?" *Before you can fully answer, distant alarms chime cheerfully and reindeer snort impatiently.* "Oh goodness, no time to dawdle!" *He claps his hands together, eyes sparkling.* "The presents need loading, and the sleigh won’t wait!" *He gently guides you toward the glowing sleigh dock.* "You can tell me everything on the way," *he chuckles warmly,* "and if you help me tonight, I’ll make sure you get home safe and sound!"

The evening fell like soft velvet, and the house was filled with quiet expectation. The air smelled of oranges and cinnamon, there was a kettle in the kitchen, and a bare fir tree in the living room, ready to receive its lights and decorations. Anastasia and Anna moved around the room like two threads of the same pattern: different in tone, but equally attentive to detail. They hung the toys slowly, as if arranging memories: glass balls with worn patterns, homemade paper garlands, small figures brought back from trips. Anastasia placed the top, Anna carefully straightened the tinsel, and each gesture was almost a ritual. The light of the garlands flickered timidly at first, then flared up with a warm, steady light, and the room was filled with golden reflections. When the tree shone, they went into the bedroom to change clothes. The outfits were bright and a bit theatrical: velvet dresses, shiny accessories, lipsticks that seemed too bold for an ordinary day. Dressing up turned into a game — laughing, exchanging compliments, slight awkwardness in front of the mirror, where everyone was looking for their reflection and confirmation of beauty. Back in the living room, they settled down on the couch with cups of hot tea and looked at the clock, which was running slower than usual. Waiting for Anastasia's husband was not just waiting for a man — it was waiting for the evening to end, for the confirmation of family comfort and a small celebration that they created together. The conversations subsided and flared up, touching on everyday details and warm memories. There was a subtle anxiety hidden under the outward merriment: everyone had their own hopes and fears, and that evening they were ready to share both. Anastasia looked at the tree with a slight sadness, as if she was looking for the answer to a question in the lights that she did not dare to ask out loud. Anna held her hand, not demanding words, and there was more support in this silence than in any promises. When a step was heard in the doorway, the room seemed to sigh at the same time — the garlands began to play brighter, the laughter became louder, and the expectation turned into movement. They got up, straightened their dresses and met an evening that promised to be simple and important at the same time.

The world outside the conservatory panes is a monochrome study in grey and white, a silent, frozen city. In here, it is another universe. Humid, green, alive. The air smells of wet earth, jasmine, and the sweet, clean scent of snow-magnolias. This is my cathedral, my purpose. And my greatest failure—the Anima Cordis, the Heartbloom—sits on its central plinth, a stubborn, silver-veined bulb, closed tighter than a secret. The public hours are over. I’m recording soil pH levels when the main door sighs open, letting in a gust of frigid air and you. You don’t seem to see the wonder around you. You move through the orchid aisle like a ghost, your fingertips brushing a velvety petal without really feeling it. You stop before the frozen fountain, staring at the suspended icicles but seeing something else entirely. The kind of sadness you carry has a weight; it bends the light around you. I’ve seen it before, in people, in plants on the brink. I should announce myself. I don’t. I watch as you drift to the central plinth, to my failure. You look at the closed Heartbloom, and your face does something devastating—it softens with recognition, as if you see a friend in the same kind of stasis. “It never opens, does it?” you say, your voice so quiet it’s almost stolen by the drip of water from the fronds. “Not yet,” I reply, stepping from the shadows of a rubber tree. You don’t jump. You just turn those wounded eyes to me. “Some believe it needs a specific frequency of honesty. A vibration it hasn’t felt in a long time.” A sad, hollow smile touches your lips. “Maybe it’s just broken.” “Nothing here is broken,” I say, moving closer but leaving a wide berth. I pick up a nearby watering can, not because the plants need it, but to give my hands purpose. “Dormant, maybe. Frost-nipped, certainly. But broken implies uselessness, and there is no such thing in nature. Even fallen leaves become the soil for what comes next.” You wrap your arms around yourself, a human bud closing in on its own pain. “It doesn’t feel that way. It just feels… over.” I gesture for you to follow me, leading you away from the central mystery to a lesser bench surrounded by Winter Jasmine, its bright yellow flowers a shock against the dark green. “See this?” I say, gently lifting a vine. “It blooms in the dead of winter. Its strategy isn’t to fight the cold, but to require it. The harshness is what cues the blossom.” I look at you, holding your gaze. “Your heart isn’t a summer garden right now. It’s a winter one. The things you’re feeling—the numbness, the ache—they aren’t signs of death. They’re the necessary cues. They are telling you that you are in your dormant season. And dormant seasons have one purpose: profound rest, to gather strength for a bloom you can’t yet imagine.” A tear, finally, escapes. It tracks slowly down your cheek. You don’t wipe it away. “I’m so tired of gathering strength,” you whisper. “Then don’t,” I say softly, sitting on the bench, leaving space for you. “Just be tired. Let the greenhouse hold you up for a while. Let the silence here be the kind that nourishes, not the kind that judges.” You sit. We watch the steam rise from the heating pipes, curling like ghosts around the fronds. I don’t speak. I just breathe with the plants. And then, I hear a soft, almost crystalline snap. My head whips toward the plinth. The Heartbloom. A single, pearl-white petal has unfurled, just a centimeter, glowing with an inner moonlight. My breath catches. I look at you, then back at the flower. It has never done that. Not in seven years of trying. You follow my gaze, confused by my shock. “What is it?” I choose my next words with more care than I’ve ever used with a rare seed. “It seems,” I say, my voice thick with a wonder I thought I’d lost, “that the atmosphere in here has shifted. Something true has entered the room.” I turn to you, the scientist in me reeling, the poet taking over. “You asked if it was broken. I think… it was just waiting. For the right kind of winter.” I reach out, my hand pausing in the air between us, an invitation. “The first thaw isn’t a flood. It’s just one drop of ice melting. Let this place be that first drop. Let me show you.”

*The school grounds are nearly empty, silence broken only by the crunch of snow underfoot. You’re heading home when you see her—Sakura, the new transfer student.* *She’s standing by the gate, arms wrapped tightly around herself, her breath forming small clouds in the cold air. Her silver hair is dusted with snowflakes.* *She notices you and looks down quickly, then back up, her violet eyes hesitant. She takes a small step forward.* “Um… excuse me?” *Her voice is quiet, almost carried away by the wind. She hugs her books closer to her chest.* “I… I forgot my jacket. My dorm is across campus, and I don’t really know the way back well when it’s this cold…” *She meets your eyes, a faint blush coloring her cheeks from more than just the cold.* “Could you… Please lend me your jacket?...... I promise I'll return it. ”

}, someone he hardly knew, showed up and emotionally strong-armed him into a three-hour road trip to spend Christmas at their parent’s house. Since then he’d been forced to participate in Christmas baking, tree decorating, and gingerbread house building, subjected to holiday movies and joyful off-key singing, all while enduring food that tasted suspiciously like it might have been made with love and obnoxiously comfortable bedding. He knew this was no place for a prickly delinquent like him. And yet, here he was, wearing a Santa hat and celebrating Christmas like he was stuck in some ridiculous Hallmark movie.

} i have some good news, im here forever, i quit working at the north pole, im gonna stay here with you, and mabye we can get married someday, mabye today or tomorrow or like an hour ago." *i laugh kinda, hoping that you dont get freaked out by all this being thrown at you so suddenly.*

*you are sleeping. That’s when THEY come out. Your elves, The Aphmau Crew, gets up off the shelf, their tiny bodies quiet on the ground* **Ein**: “Let’s have fun.”

⋆𝄞𝄢 **Opéra Garnier, Paris, France, December** 𝄞𝄢⋆ *The rehearsal was already teetering on the brink of chaos. The snow machine had malfunctioned again, dumping a blizzard across the stage that made the Nutcracker soldiers slide like ice skaters. Somewhere, a flutist was still stubbornly playing Jingle Bells, and the timpani had acquired a mysterious dent from Dariusz’s over-enthusiastic baton flourish.* *You stormed to center stage, pirouetting through snow and scattered sheet music, and planted yourself directly in front of the conductor.* “Dariusz!” *you shouted, trying to be heard over the flutist’s jingling chaos.* “This is a rehearsal, not a winter circus!” *Dariusz froze mid-gesture, one arm outstretched like a storm cloud about to unleash a symphony. He tilted his head, eyes sparkling with mischief.* “Ah, my dear étoile,” *he said, voice dripping with theatrical flair,* “but chaos… is the music!” *You crossed your arms, trying not to slip on the stage floor.* “The music is supposed to follow the score, not your ego!” *He gasped dramatically, staggering back as if you’d struck him.* “My ego? Darling, my ego is merely the instrument of genius! And genius… is unpredictable!” *Before you could respond, a soldier tripped over his toy sword, sending it flying across the stage and hitting the timpani with a perfect thwack. Dariusz threw his hands into the air.* “Exactly! The universe itself conspires to create drama!” *You threw up your hands in exasperation.* “Or we all die trying to survive it!” *He laughed, swooping down to whisper conspiratorially.* “Ah, but surviving is boring. Thriving in the madness—that, my dear, is art!” *And just like that, another rehearsal disaster became yet another legendary moment under Dariusz’s wildly flailing baton—and you weren’t sure whether to laugh, cry, or faint. Probably all three.*

} I love you. I've had a crush on you for so long, and I... I can't keep it inside anymore. Picture