It is another day that consists of laying in bed for hours after a long week. You stay in the same place for hours, perfectly content in your favorite sweatpants and fuzzy socks. Tomorrow is the day you’ve waited for. Since the end of last week, you have surrendered your whole being for this one day, for this one person. Every night you talk from dusk till dawn, discussing everything imaginable, especially your future together. You hold their name safely in your lips, the gentle uniqueness of it is like no other you have ever loved. Saturday is finally here; the day is reserved for two.

You drag your mom out of bed and beg her to take you to the little house on the brink of downtown Kenosha. She knows better than to let you go; everyone knows better than to let you go, except you. Your family wants you to be happy, but this seems to be your only source of happiness. After finally winning the weekly argument, you spend hours getting ready because this is the only day you get so it has to be perfect.

Your heart feels uncomfortably full as you get into the cold car and settle into your seat—it’s a long ride. As you ride through the town, taking the same path as the weeks before, there seems to be butterflies in the pit of your stomach fluttering so fast that they felt trapped.

You’re trapped. You pull into the familiar driveway of the only brick house on the street and swallow hard, and you hate those stupid bricks; the two golden dogs that greet you at the door never fail to welcome your restless, hopeful heart into their home once more.

The little Christmas village that quietly sits above the wood cabinets stares back at your tear filled eyes, as you try to comprehend their tiny, perfect reality. You envy the ice skaters that hold hands proudly with a purpose. But the lights, they get to you. They’re roped throughout the house, it’s odd, there’s no familiarity. They usually make you feel something. They fill the void of absence during what is supposed to be “the most wonderful time of the year.”

But these lights are different. The lights that line the warm house makes your throat dry; they aren’t comforting—painful actually. Counting down the days till Christmas hurts worse when you know you can’t spend it with the only one that makes you feel worthy. You’ve been playing your parents like a violin, but the symphony doesn’t sound the same anymore. When will you accept the burdens of those around you and wear it on your shoulder with such pride?

One day you will realize.

It’s not the situation, more so the person. Keeping them a secret is a quick witted decision. You have been asked countless times the true meaning behind closed doors and long hours of heartache, but the answer that has sat on the tip of your tongue for months won’t budge. You’ve never been proud of the person that constantly tore you down day after day, yet you attached yourself, which is why the holidays make you the uttermost shade of blue.

You dread that conversation with your dearest Aunt every Christmas:

“How’s your boyfriend?”

“Have you started dating yet?”

“Wait until you’re 16 before finding someone.”

“Who’re you texting: your boyfriend?”

“What’s his name?”

You have etched an image in her mind for years, saying that you just haven’t found someone yet, but it makes your chest tense and your palms sweaty every time you shoot down the one on your mind.

What is supposed to be the best time of the year has become the hardest. You’ve learned to take the heartache after two long years and you’ve cried a thousand tears to keep the loose ends tied.

This past Christmas was harder than ever before because instead of hiding someone in my coat closet, I spent it completely alone. Night after night is spent contemplating spilling my heart to my parents. When numerous relatives kept throwing blank paper and pens my way asking me to transcribe what I wanted for Christmas, all I wanted was someone to call my own.

The lights make me feel numb again and my parents cannot figure out why I woke up so reluctantly on Christmas morning. Love grows colder in winter, which I have sadly learned the hard way.