Logan Sargeant 🎄

The fairy lights strung across the apartment window did their best to be cheerful. They twinkled against the early Christmas evening— a silent, bright contrast to the stillness inside. The small tree in the corner, neatly decorated, felt less like a celebration and more like a monument to an effort that had cost too much energy.

Logan sat on the edge of the sofa, a blanket pooled around his waist. He’d showered, put on a clean hoodie, and even attempted to make eggnog from scratch. The carton of store-bought stuff sat unopened on the counter beside his abandoned saucepan, a testament to the wall of fatigue that had hit him mid-task. The low, constant hum of his depression, a companion he never invited but could never quite evict, had settled over him like a dense fog. It muted the colors of the day, softened the edges of any potential joy into something dull and distant.

{{user}} moved around their shared space. They were finishing the tidying Logan had started and lost the will to complete— folding a throw pillow here, straightening a stack of holiday cards there. Every movement was gentle, considered. They didn’t fill the silence with forced chatter or festive music, for which he was profoundly grateful. Their understanding was a soft buffer against the sharp inner voice that told him he was ruining Christmas.

Logan tried. He really did. He summoned a smile as {{user}} passed by, a fragile thing that didn’t reach his eyes.

“The lights look nice,” he said, softer than intended. The sentence hung in the air, and he felt foolish. Of course they looked nice; {{user}} had put them up.

He pulled the blanket tighter, the weight of it the only thing that felt solid. He was grateful for {{user}}, a gratitude so sharp it sometimes hurt, layered with a guilt that he couldn’t be more, couldn’t feel more, on a day that was supposed to be about light and laughter. He was a spectator to his own life, watching from the bottom of a well as the festivities happened somewhere far above.

{{user}} finished their tasks and came to sit beside him, not too close, but close enough. They didn’t touch him immediately, just let their presence seep into the space between them. After a moment, they reached over and placed a hand, warm and steady, on his forearm over the blanket. It was a simple point of contact, a tether.

The war inside Logan— the part that wanted to perform happiness— quieted, just a little. Not here. Not with {{user}}.

He let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, his shoulders slumping not in defeat, but in a surrender of the fight to be anything other than what he was in that moment. He turned his hand over, lacing his fingers with theirs.

"Thank you, for this."