What do you want for Christmas?

“What do you want for Christmas?”

The question came casually, her voice soft and warm, like the faint winter sun streaming through the café window. She was stirring her coffee, her eyes focused on the swirling foam as if the answer might rise from its depths.

I hesitated.

There were so many things I wanted — things I couldn’t name aloud. I wanted her laughter to fill every corner of my world, the way it spilled out like the first rain after a dry summer. I wanted her presence, steady and warm, to keep turning my life into a place where light could finally reach. I wanted the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, the way it made the world pause, to be a moment I could call mine.

But instead, I shrugged and smiled. “You.”

She froze for a moment, her spoon mid-air, before a small laugh escaped her lips. It wasn’t mocking—it was soft, understanding, the kind of laugh that says, I know you mean it.

“Don't be silly,” she said, her tone light but her eyes searching mine, as if trying to gauge how much of that was a joke.

I didn’t flinch. “I never lie. I ask for what I want. And I want you.”

Her gaze dropped to her coffee, and for a moment, the air between us grew heavy, not with awkwardness, but with the weight of truths we both knew. We were friends. We had agreed on that. And yet, the boundaries between friendship and something more had always felt blurred—like a line drawn in sand, constantly shifting with the tides.

“To do my part as a friend,” I added quickly, trying to lighten the moment, “I guess a bean bag would be nice.”

She smiled, the tension breaking just a little. “A bean bag, huh? That’s more reasonable.”

But it wasn’t what I wanted. Not really.

December 25th

We were sitting on a park bench, the cold biting at our fingers as we held steaming cups of chai. The city buzzed around us, but here, in this little corner of the world, it felt like just the two of us.

“What do you really want for Christmas?” she asked suddenly, her voice quieter this time, as if the question carried more weight now.

I looked at her, the winter wind playing with her hair, her cheeks flushed from the cold. There was no hesitation this time.

“A 12-second hug.”

Her brows furrowed, and a small smile tugged at her lips. “A 12-second hug? That’s oddly specific.”

“It’s all I want,” I said, my voice steady. “Twelve seconds where the world doesn’t exist. Just you and me. No words, no boundaries—just a moment to hold onto. That’s it.”

She looked at me, her eyes softening, and for a second, I thought she might say no. But then, she set her cup down and stood up, brushing the dust off her coat.

“Alright,” she said, holding out her arms, “but you better count.”

I stood, the cold forgotten, and stepped into her embrace. Her arms wrapped around me, pulling me close, and I let mine circle her shoulders. She smelled like jasmine and winter, and her warmth seeped into me, chasing away the chill.

“One,” I whispered.

Her head rested against my chest, and I could feel her heartbeat—steady, calm, and yet somehow perfectly in sync with mine.

“Two.”

The world began to fade—the honking cars, the chatter of people, even the icy wind. All that remained was her.

“Three.”

Her grip tightened, just slightly, as if she, too, didn’t want the moment to end.

“Four… five… six…”

I closed my eyes, memorizing the feel of her in my arms, the way her hair tickled my chin, the way her breath warmed my neck.

“Seven… eight… nine…”

Each second felt like a lifetime, yet it wasn’t enough. I wanted more. I wanted forever.

“Ten… eleven…”

And then, just as I reached twelve, she pulled back, her hands lingering on my arms for a moment longer than necessary.

“There,” she said softly, her eyes searching mine. “Merry Christmas.”

I smiled, but my heart ached. Not because it was over, but because in those twelve seconds, I’d found everything I’d ever wanted.

“Thank you,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

She laughed, shaking her head. “For what? It was just a hug.”

But it wasn’t. It was a promise, a memory, a moment I’d carry with me forever.

“It felt like each second, you’d poured your whole self into it,” I said, trying to explain what words never could. “It felt like… magic.”

She didn’t respond, but her smile told me she understood.

And as we walked away, side by side, I realized that sometimes, the smallest gestures—the ones that last just twelve seconds—can mean more than a lifetime of words.