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“Ex-Mas Dreams”

The calendar on my kitchen wall read November 30th, but it might as well have been any day. Time had lost its meaning in the fog of my unemployment, days bleeding into one another like watercolors left in the rain. I stared at the pile of rejection emails on my phone, each one a tiny death of hope.

Three months ago, being jobless had felt like an unexpected holiday—sleeping in, wandering Edinburgh's cobbled streets at midday, the freedom of unscheduled hours. Now, that initial lightness had crystallized into something heavier, something that sat on my chest each morning when I woke alone in my silent flat. Not a holiday at all, but a sentence, an exile from purpose, from connection, from worth.

The ticking of my wall clock seemed to grow louder as the days grew shorter. Winter in Edinburgh brought darkness by mid-afternoon, and the cold seemed to seep through the cracks in my windows and the cracks in my resolve. My savings were dwindling, and my so-called friends had stopped checking in. Their lives continued; mine had stalled. Each unanswered text, each invitation declined due to a tightening budget, had worn away at those connections until they were as thin and fragile as tissue paper.

I pressed my forehead against the cold glass of my window, watching my breath form a small cloud of condensation. Outside, the first decorations of the season had begun to appear—twinkling lights strung across the street, wreaths on doors. I'd always loved Christmas, the way it transformed the grey stone city into something softer, something that held the promise of magic. Nevertheless, this year, the sight of it twisted something painful inside me. The season of togetherness only highlighted my isolation.

The next morning, I made a decision. The Christmas market had opened in Princes Street Gardens, and I would go. Not because I had money to spend on trinkets or mulled wine, but because I couldn't bear another day of silence, of walls that seemed to inch closer with each passing hour. I needed to be among people, even if I was not truly with them.

The market sprawled through the gardens, a labyrinth of wooden stalls selling everything from handcrafted ornaments to artisanal cheeses. The air smelled of cinnamon and pine, of roasting chestnuts and sweet, spiced wine. Families moved through the narrow pathways in tight clusters, children's mittened hands clutched firmly by parents. Couples leaned into each other, sharing scarves and secrets. I walked among them, hands shoved deep in the pockets of my coat, drifting untethered through a universe that had no need of him.

Still, there was something in the atmosphere that soothed me. The seasonal lights cast a warm glow over everything, softening edges and creating pockets of golden illumination in the gathering dusk. So simple, and yet so magical...

I was about to call it a day, to return to my silent flat with at least the memory of noise and light, when a bright voice cut through the ambient sounds of the market.

"You there! Young man with the serious face! Don't walk by—your Christmas destiny awaits!"

I turned to see a small stall I had somehow missed, decorated with more items than seemed structurally sound. Behind the counter stood a petite woman with short black hair, dressed in a dark green elf costume complete with pointy ears and curled shoes. Her smile was impish, her energy irrepressible.

"I don't have any money," I said automatically, already half-turning away.

"Who said anything about money?" she countered, leaning forward on her elbows. "I'm offering magic, and magic, my friend, is free!"

Despite myself, I stepped closer. Her name tag read "Janette."

"What kind of magic?" I asked, surprising myself with the question. The old Gavin, the one who still had hope, might have been intrigued by such whimsy. The current Gavin should have known better.

"Oh, the best kind!" Janette promised, her eyes twinkling as brightly as the lights surrounding her stall. "Christmas wishes. Genuine, direct-to-Santa Christmas wishes. And you, my serious friend, look like you could use a few."

She gestured to a small tent set up beside her stall, its entrance curtained with a thick, red velvet drape. "Go on, then. No charge. Just sit down and write a letter to Santa. Who knows? He might just be listening this year."

I almost laughed hearing her suggestion. A grown man writing to Santa? It was absurd. And yet, the kindness in her eyes, the simple offer of a moment of fantasy—it pulled at something inside me, something that still wanted to believe in possibility.

"Fine," I said, trying to sound reluctant rather than pathetically grateful for the interaction. "But I'm not promising anything profound."

The interior of the tent was surprisingly cozy. A small desk held a stack of festive stationery, colorful pens, and a brass letter box with "NORTH POLE" embossed on its side. A single chair waited before it, bathed in the warm light of a battery-operated lantern. The tent smelled of peppermint and something deeper, richer—maybe cinnamon or cloves. It was calming, enveloping.

I sat down, took a sheet of paper, and suddenly found myself staring at it, paralyzed. What did I want? What could I possibly ask for that wouldn't reveal the depth of my loneliness, the expanse of my desperation? My cheeks burned with shame; even in this private fantasy, I was afraid to want too much.

Finally, I began to write:

Dear Santa,

(Is that how these still start? I've forgotten the protocol.)

I don't need much this year. Just three things:

1. A job that brings me joy,

2. New friends who won't disappear,

3. To find love.

My hand stilled on the third item. Love. Such a simple word for such a complicated longing. And with it came a face, unbidden, that I had tried so hard to forget. Andrew Koya. Not just the image of him, but the feel of him—the weight of his arm thrown casually over my chest in those dark dorm room nights, the scent of his skin, a mix of sandalwood and something uniquely him. The sound of his laughter, low and warm against my ear. A happiness that had felt stolen, temporary, too good to last. And I had been right. It ended as abruptly as it began, with no explanation, just a growing silence that eventually became permanent.