A Silent Christmas...

Dear Readers,

The clock on the wall ticked away relentlessly, each second echoing in the deafening silence of the small, dimly lit apartment. It was Christmas Eve, and the world outside seemed to be celebrating happily. Strings of colorful lights twinkled through frosted windows, laughter spilled out of houses, and the faint sounds of carols floated through the chilly December air. But for me, there was no celebration, no laughter, no warmth. There was only silence.

This was my third Christmas alone. No friends, no family, no messages pinging on my phone, and no social media notifications, no WhatsApp nothing. I had deleted my accounts years ago, tired of scrolling through the carefully curated lives of others that only deepened my loneliness. The phone, once my lifeline to the world, now sat untouched on the kitchen counter, its screen dark. I hadn’t even bothered charging it that day. Why would I? No one would call.

I glanced at the calendar hanging crookedly on the wall. December 24th was circled in red, but not as a reminder of joy. Instead, it served as a cruel marker of what I had lost a family that had drifted apart, friendships that had faded, and a love that had turned into a ghost of memory. I sighed, the sound swallowed by the emptiness of the room.

The fridge hummed softly, its contents sparse. A bottle of milk, a stick of butter, and some leftover pasta. I hadn’t bothered to shop for Christmas dinner; there seemed no point in cooking a feast for one. Instead, I reached for a can of soup from the cupboard. Chicken noodles are not exactly festive, but it would do. As the soup warmed on the stove, I pulled a dusty box from under the couch.

Inside were remnants of Christmases past: a tattered Santa hat, a cracked ornament, and a small string of lights that no longer worked. At the bottom of the box lay a photograph. I hesitated before picking it up. It was a picture of me with my wife, taken during Christmas years ago. They had been smiling, holding mugs of hot cocoa by the fireplace. The love in their eyes was unmistakable. I swallowed hard and set the photo aside, face down. Some memories were too painful to revisit.

The soup was ready, its smell was faint but comforting. I ladled it into a bowl and sat by the window to eat. Outside, the world was alive with celebration. Families walked by carrying gifts, couples strolled hand in hand, and children, bundled in scarves and mittens, dragged sleds behind them. I sipped my soup slowly, trying not to envy them. I had learned long ago that envy was a poison, but on nights like this, it was hard to resist.

As the hours passed, the loneliness pressed down on me like a heavy blanket. I tried to distract myself by reading, but the words on the page blurred as my mind wandered. Memories of Christmas mornings as a child surfaced waking up to the smell of cinnamon rolls, tearing open presents under the tree, and the sound of my mother’s laughter. She had always loved Christmas. But she was gone now, and so was the magic of those mornings.

I lit a single candle and placed it on the windowsill. The flickering flame cast a warm glow, a tiny defiance against the coldness of the night. I thought about going to the midnight mass at the church down the street. Perhaps the company of strangers would ease the ache, but the thought of walking into a room filled with joyful families only deepened my sense of isolation. I stayed put.

At midnight, the church bells rang out, their sound crisp and clear in the still night. I raised my glass of water in a mock toast. “Merry Christmas,” I whispered to no one in particular. My voice cracked, and I set the glass down, blinking away the tears that threatened to spill.

I thought about texting someone. Anyone. But who? My contact list was sparse, filled mostly with numbers I hadn’t dialed in years. I scrolled through it anyway, pausing at names that once meant something. A childhood friend, a former coworker, and my elder sister. I hadn’t spoken to my sister in over a decade. our last conversation had ended in anger, and neither had reached out since. I hovered over the name, my thumb hesitating above the call button. But fear and pride held him back. I set the phone down, the screen darkening once more.

The hours dragged on. I turned on the TV, hoping for some background noise to fill the void. The channels were filled with holiday specials and cheerful commercials. Families opening gifts, couples sharing kisses under the mistletoe, children laughing as they built snowmen. It was all too much. I turned the TV off and sat in the darkness, the candle on the windowsill now burned down to a stub.

Sleep was elusive, as it often was on nights like this. my thoughts spiraled into the depths of what-ifs and if-only. What if I had tried harder to keep my marriage together? What if I had reached out to my sister years ago? What if I had been a better friend, a better son, a better husband? The weight of my regrets was suffocating.

The first light of dawn crept through the window, painting the room in soft hues of gray. Christmas morning had arrived, but it felt no different from any other day. I got up and made myself a cup of instant coffee. I sat by the window again, watching as the world outside came to life. Children dashed outside to try their new bikes and sleds, neighbors exchanged greetings, and the aroma of roasted turkey and baked pies wafted through the air.

For me, there were no gifts to open, no one to wish “Merry Christmas,” and no one to wish me the same. I was a ghost, watching the world move on without me. As I sipped my coffee, I thought about the years ahead. Would they all be like this? The same hollow emptiness, the same aching solitude?

The thought was unbearable. I set the mug down and stared out the window, my breath fogging the glass. Somewhere deep inside, a tiny ember of hope flickered. Maybe next year would be different. Maybe I would muster the courage to reach out, to mend broken bridges, to let someone in. But for now, I sat in silence, the weight of another lonely Christmas pressing heavily on my heart.

Jacob M