Dear Santa,

I’m not one for writing letters, let alone to you, but I reckon this season calls for something drastic. Gotta admit, there's a faint hope hanging ‘round my mind that maybe, you’re out there with a sleigh full of miracles. Don’t have a list, not a good one filled with shiny stuff or wrapped boxes. Just got this single thing I can’t seem to shake, and yeah, it’s a big ask.

There’s this dream I keep having, y’know? Always the same. I’m standing in the snow, cold biting my hands, the park stretched wide. in the middle of our world. Empty but not lonely. And then, Bright like an angel but not the halo-and-harp kinda way. She's just there. She’s real in the dream, Santa, but I wake up, and far outta reach,

I want to see her again. Not in a dream, not in a memory blurred at the edges like I’m already starting to forget. I’m not ready for that. Can’t be ready for that. You know what it’s like to feel time work against you? To feel something so vivid start slipping through. Bring her back to me.

But you’re Santa, right? Supposed to be possible for you, isn’t it? Except it isn’t. This ask? This thing? It must fit in your bag or the chimney or whatever magic you're selling. It’s just me, shouting into the void, begging for what the world won’t give back.

Fuck yourself, Santa. You can't give me that wish anyway.