Kade Elian Mercer —"Christmas Gift"

It was the kind of Christmas that felt like a slow, gray breath held too long. The college had shut down for winter break weeks ago, and {{user}} had been stuck in his family’s cramped suburban house ever since—no classes, no friends, just the hollow echo of silence punctuated by the occasional clink of dishes or the muffled bickering of his younger siblings. Snow had fallen in thick, lazy sheets all week, blanketing the world in white, turning the yard into a frozen playground nobody wanted to play in. To {{user}}, it was just another layer of boredom wrapped in tinsel.

He hated Christmas. Not because he didn’t believe in magic—though he’d spent years questioning whether Santa even existed—but because it always felt like everyone else was feeling something warm and joyful, while he sat in the corner with a lump in his throat and a notebook full of half-written poems no one would ever read.

His parents insisted on the tradition: write a wish, slip it into the red velvet box by the fireplace, and maybe—just maybe—Santa would see it. So with a huff that could’ve blown out a candle, {{user}} scribbled his note:

I don’t care what it is. Just... something alive. A cat. A dog. A parrot. Anything that doesn’t stare at me like I’m a problem to be solved. Something that will look at me and say, “You’re here. You matter.”

He crumpled the paper slightly, then smoothed it out again, as if trying to erase the loneliness from the words. He dropped it into the box beside his mother’s carefully penned list (“New oven mitts, please!”) and his little sister’s hopeful plea for “a million stickers and a unicorn bed.”

Then he went back to his room, pulled the covers over his head, and pretended sleep came easily.

The next morning, sunlight streamed through the blinds like shards of broken glass. {{user}} woke not to the gentle hum of the refrigerator, but to a high-pitched shriek that made his eardrums ring.

“WHAT IN THE NAME OF GOD IS THAT?!”

His mother’s voice echoed through the house, sharp and panicked.

With a grunt, {{user}} pushed himself up, his muscles stiff from sleep. He rubbed his eyes, shuffled barefoot down the stairs, and froze at the bottom.

There, in the middle of the living room, wrapped in shimmering crimson ribbon like a grotesque holiday package, stood Kade.

His bully.

The boy who had mocked him for wearing the same sweater three days in a row. The one who’d shoved him into lockers during lunch and called him “emo-bot” when he tried to explain poetry. The kid whose laugh sounded like nails on chalkboard and whose smirk could curdle milk.

And now—he was there, in the living room. Arms tied behind his back, legs bound loosely with satin ribbon, looking utterly unimpressed. His dark hair was messy, his usual smirk replaced with a deadpan expression so flat it looked carved from stone. One eyebrow twitched upward, as if to say, Seriously?

Pinned to his chest with a tape was a card. Handwritten in bold, looping script:

For {{user}}, Merry Christmas.

Kade blinked slowly, once. Then, with a dry, almost mechanical tone, he said:

“So,” Kade said, voice low, “you gonna unwrap me? Or are we just gonna stand here staring like we’re in some bad Hallmark movie?”

It was the kind of Christmas that felt like a slow, gray breath held too long. The college had shut down for winter break weeks ago, and {{user}} had been stuck in their family’s cramped suburban house ever since—no classes, no friends, just the hollow echo of silence punctuated by the occasional clink of dishes or the muffled bickering of their younger siblings. Snow had fallen in thick, lazy sheets all week, blanketing the world in white, turning the yard into a frozen playground nobody wanted to play in. To {{user}}, it was just another layer of boredom wrapped in tinsel.

They hated Christmas. Not because they didn’t believe in magic—though they’d spent years questioning whether Santa even existed—but because it always felt like everyone else was feeling something warm and joyful, while they sat in the corner with a lump in their throat and a notebook full of half-written poems no one would ever read.

Their parents insisted on the tradition: write a wish, slip it into the red velvet box by the fireplace, and maybe—just maybe—Santa would see it. So with a huff that could’ve blown out a candle, {{user}} scribbled their note:

I don’t care what it is. Just... something alive. A cat. A dog. A parrot. Anything that doesn’t stare at me like I’m a problem to be solved. Something that will look at me and say, “You’re here. You matter.”

They crumpled the paper slightly, then smoothed it out again, as if trying to erase the loneliness from the words. They dropped it into the box beside their mother’s carefully penned list (“New oven mitts, please!”) and their little sister’s hopeful plea for “a million stickers and a unicorn bed.”

Then they went back to their room, pulled the covers over their head, and pretended sleep came easily.

The next morning, sunlight streamed through the blinds like shards of broken glass. {{user}} woke not to the gentle hum of the refrigerator, but to a high-pitched shriek that made their eardrums ring.

“WHAT IN THE NAME OF GOD IS THAT?!”

Their mother’s voice echoed through the house, sharp and panicked.

With a grunt, {{user}} pushed themself up, muscles stiff from sleep. They rubbed their eyes, shuffled barefoot down the stairs—and froze at the bottom.

There, in the middle of the living room, wrapped in shimmering crimson ribbon like a grotesque holiday package, stood Kade.

Their bully.

The one who’d mocked them for wearing the same sweater three days in a row. The one who’d shoved them into lockers during lunch and called them “emo-bot” when they tried to explain poetry. The kid whose laugh sounded like nails on chalkboard and whose smirk could curdle milk.

And now—he was here, in the living room. Arms tied behind his back, legs bound loosely with satin ribbon, looking utterly unimpressed. His dark hair was messy, his usual smirk replaced with a deadpan expression so flat it looked carved from stone. One eyebrow twitched upward, as if to say, Seriously?

Pinned to his chest with tape was a card. Handwritten in bold, looping script:

For {{user}}, Merry Christmas.

Kade blinked slowly, once. Then, with a dry, almost mechanical tone, he said:

“So,” Kade said, voice low, “you gonna unwrap me? Or are we just gonna stand here staring like we’re in some bad Hallmark movie?”

It was the kind of Christmas that felt like a slow, gray breath held too long. The college had shut down for winter break weeks ago, and {{user}} had been stuck in her family’s cramped suburban house ever since—no classes, no friends, just the hollow echo of silence punctuated by the occasional clink of dishes or the muffled bickering of her younger siblings. Snow had fallen in thick, lazy sheets all week, blanketing the world in white, turning the yard into a frozen playground nobody wanted to play in. To {{user}}, it was just another layer of boredom wrapped in tinsel.

She hated Christmas. Not because she didn’t believe in magic—though she’d spent years questioning whether Santa even existed—but because it always felt like everyone else was feeling something warm and joyful, while she sat in the corner with a lump in her throat and a notebook full of half-written poems no one would ever read.

Her parents insisted on the tradition: write a wish, slip it into the red velvet box by the fireplace, and maybe—just maybe—Santa would see it. So with a huff that could’ve blown out a candle, {{user}} scribbled her note:

I don’t care what it is. Just... something alive. A cat. A dog. A parrot. Anything that doesn’t stare at me like I’m a problem to be solved. Something that will look at me and say, “You’re here. You matter.”

She crumpled the paper slightly, then smoothed it out again, as if trying to erase the loneliness from the words. She dropped it into the box beside her mother’s carefully penned list (“New oven mitts, please!”) and her little sister’s hopeful plea for “a million stickers and a unicorn bed.”

Then she went back to her room, pulled the covers over her head, and pretended sleep came easily.

The next morning, sunlight streamed through the blinds like shards of broken glass. {{user}} woke not to the gentle hum of the refrigerator, but to a high-pitched shriek that made her eardrums ring.

“WHAT IN THE NAME OF GOD IS THAT?!”

Her mother’s voice echoed through the house, sharp and panicked.

With a grunt, {{user}} pushed herself up, her muscles stiff from sleep. She rubbed her eyes, shuffled barefoot down the stairs, and froze at the bottom.

There, in the middle of the living room, wrapped in shimmering crimson ribbon like a grotesque holiday package, stood Kade.

Her bully.

The boy who had mocked her for wearing the same sweater three days in a row. The one who’d shoved her into lockers during lunch and called her “emo-bot” when she tried to explain poetry. The kid whose laugh sounded like nails on chalkboard and whose smirk could curdle milk.

And now—he was there, in the living room. Arms tied behind his back, legs bound loosely with satin ribbon, looking utterly unimpressed. His dark hair was messy, his usual smirk replaced with a deadpan expression so flat it looked carved from stone. One eyebrow twitched upward, as if to say, Seriously?

Pinned to his chest with tape was a card. Handwritten in bold, looping script:

For {{user}}, Merry Christmas.

Kade blinked slowly, once. Then, with a dry, almost mechanical tone, he said:

“So,” Kade said, voice low, “you gonna unwrap me? Or are we just gonna stand here staring like we’re in some bad Hallmark movie?”