christmas sucks ; minsung

christmas sucks

I hate Christmas.

After explaining it to friends and colleagues and whoever else so many goddamn times, I realize it's not reasonable. There wasn't one inciting incident. Santa didn't come down the chimney, steal my lunch money and roundhouse me. It was a process. A process through which I turned into the Grinch.

I'm not proud of it. When the holidays roll around again, the kids I teach come up to me and wish me a Merry Christmas. They have their little elf shoes and Santa hats, eyes glowing, looking forward to family and presents and junk food. I'm a bit jealous.

But it's not like I have anywhere to go. My family wouldn't particularly care if I lived or died, my friends have families of their own, I don't have a boyfriend. I'm four years into a tradition where I go to a bar, drink until I forget about how sad I am, watch a Halloween movie — because I'm contradictory like that — and fall asleep on the couch.

Now it's 10 o'clock on Christmas Eve. I'm zipping up my coat, about to carry my holiday tradition into its fifth year. I'm sad and ready to forget it. Forget all of it.

It's windy and storming hard outside. It makes me think I should stay in and have hot cocoa or something. I should have hot cocoa with someone. Even if you reject the consumerist or religious or traditionalist conventions — the people who made the holidays something to be dreaded — it's kind of ridiculous to be alone on Christmas.

Having had that thought, I want to get drunk more than ever.

As I'm about to open my door, I hear a sound. A whimper, a cry. I'm fairly certain it isn't mine. I look out the peephole.

My neighbour from across the hall — Han Jisung — is slumped against his door, crying into his sleeves.

I don't know Jisung well. We met at the goodbye party for the old janitor, ended up standing next to each other, sipping our drinks. He complimented my sweater.

"You should be in a Sears catalogue right now." He pinched the fabric. "Ooh, soft." His smile was cute.

We talked a few more times, in the hallway or at tenant meetings. Never deeper than the weather, random observations or comments. One time I pointed out that his shoe was untied. Another time he showed me a picture of his newborn nephew, just because he was proud.

Sometimes we happened to be in the elevator at the same time. I don't know why, but being in a small, quiet space with him was awkward — especially when we had already established that it was chilly out.

Now his shoulders are twitching as he cries, face buried in his arms, legs folded to his chest. His huge coat is wet with melted snow. There's a suitcase and a backpack flanking him, slouched like he is.

I don't know if I should go out there. I wouldn't want that if it were me. To be seen at my most vulnerable. It's so hard to stop crying once you start.

But I have a feeling Jisung is the opposite of me. He engages with our other neighbours, visits his family all the time — though they live farther away than mine do. The biggest tip-off I'm seeing right now is that his quarter of the hallway is decked out with Christmas stuff. A wreath on the door, a couple plastic reindeer on the floor, a dancing Santa. He loves the holidays.

Christmas spirit. Human connection. I drop my face into my hands and shake off the jitters.

I open the door. He hears it and looks up. His cheeks are smeared with tears, eyes cracked by tiny red veins.

"Jisung?" I say.

He squeezes up smaller, wiping his face. "Hey, Minho."

"You okay?"