a christmas without warmth

Today didn’t feel like Christmas at all. The rain poured down relentlessly, its cold, rhythmic patter filling the spaces where joy should have been. The streets were eerily quiet, devoid of the usual Christmas chaos. No kids stood outside our porch to collect their pamasko, their laughter and anticipation swallowed by the gray skies. No carolers braved the weather to sing their songs of cheer. It was as if the holiday itself had been washed away, leaving behind only a damp, lifeless version of what should’ve been a day of warmth and celebration.

I’ve always hated the rain. It has this way of ruining everything it touches—plans, moods, even the tiniest glimmers of joy. Plans get canceled, and the world feels smaller, lonelier. If I had to choose between enduring the unbearable heat of the sun or the cold, relentless rain, I’d choose the sun without hesitation. Even if it meant sweating through the day, I’d rather face the discomfort of heat than the aching chill of solitude that rain seems to bring.

The hours dragged on, heavy with boredom and restlessness. I tried to escape into When I Fly Towards You, a C-drama that offered a comforting distraction. For a while, it worked. The characters’ lives and love stories filled the emptiness in mine, even if just temporarily. I ate leftovers from Christmas Eve, though even the food felt less vibrant today, stripped of the magic that surrounded it the night before.

In a bold attempt to add some color to this dull day, I posted an interactive story on Instagram. If someone liked it, I’d tag them with a song that reminded me of them. It seemed like a harmless way to pass the time, maybe even spark some connection. When my crush liked the story, my heart jumped. Before I could overthink it, I tagged them with a love song—an impulsive decision that felt thrilling at first but quickly morphed into embarrassment. Did they see it the way I meant it? Or was it just a cringey mistake? I’d only done it to feel something, anything, to break through the numbness that had settled over me.

But the temporary happiness didn’t last. As the hours stretched on, I tried to distract myself again. I told myself I’d clean my room or pamper myself with some overdue self-care, anything to feel productive. Yet the motivation slipped away as quickly as it came. I ended up back here, venting my feelings, as if pouring them onto a page could somehow lighten the load.

Lately, I’ve been distracting myself with rom-com shows to keep the sadness at bay. It works sometimes. Watching those idealized lives, where love and laughter solve everything, makes me feel lighter for a moment. But this month has been different. I’ve been crying more than usual, the tears catching me off guard. Maybe it’s my regrets haunting me, whispering all the what ifs I try so hard to ignore.

Every day brings me closer to the new year, and while a part of me is excited at the thought of a fresh start, another part of me is terrified. What if nothing changes? What if all these plans I’ve been carefully crafting remain just that—plans? I’ve been spending months trying to change myself for the better, but it feels like I’ve hit a wall. No matter how much effort I put in, I’m still the same. Or maybe worse. I see the habits I promised myself I’d break, the emotions I swore I’d master, and I realize I’m still caught in the same cycles.

I wonder if I just need to go outside. Maybe the world beyond my walls holds the answers I’ve been searching for. Maybe a walk in the fresh air, even in this miserable rain, could jolt me out of this stagnant state. But then again, stepping outside feels daunting, like it might expose all the vulnerabilities I’ve been hiding from.

The rain kept falling, steady and indifferent, as if mocking my struggles. Through the window, I watched the drops race each other down the glass, their paths chaotic and aimless—much like how I feel. Somewhere out there, people were celebrating, finding joy in the little things despite the weather. And here I was, trapped in my own thoughts, a prisoner of my own fears and doubts.

I’ve been avoiding my emotions, pushing them aside because they feel too heavy to carry. But they always find their way back, seeping through the cracks, demanding to be felt. Writing helps, but even this feels repetitive now, like I’m scribbling the same story over and over again. Something inside me has shifted, but I can’t figure out what. All I know is that I’m tired. Tired of feeling stuck. Tired of being weighed down by regrets and fears. Tired of trying so hard to change only to end up in the same place.

Still, I can’t help but hope that tomorrow will be better. Or the day after that. Or maybe the one after. I cling to the idea that change is possible, even if it feels far away. For now, though, I’m here—trying to untangle the mess of emotions, yearning for something more, and hoping that someday, I’ll finally find it.