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The subway rattled through the tunnel under Third Avenue, and Maya clung to the handrail as if it were the only fixed point in a world spinning too fast. Outside, it was already dark, even though it was only 4:30. December in New York: the city swallowed the light like a hungry animal.
She had a list. Of course she had a list.
The list lived on her phone, updated and categorized, with little checkmarks next to each completed item. But there were still too many items unchecked. Too many. The train stopped at 42nd Street, and she let herself be pushed out by the crowd into the cold air, which smelled of exhaust fumes and roasted nuts.
Macy's. She had to go to Macy's.
The gifts for his family hadn't all arrived yet. His mother—something elegant, but not too expensive. His brother—something tech-related that she didn't understand. His aunt—a scarf, Diego had said; she loves scarves. And then there were her own parents, flying in from San Francisco. Her mother, commenting on everything. Her father, nodding silently, and then later talking to Maya when no one else was listening.
The air pressed against her cheeks like cold hands.
She crossed the street and saw the shop windows glowing like oversized jewel boxes. A Santa Claus waved mechanically in front of a toy store. Two women laughed shrilly as they took pictures of each other. Everything was too loud, too bright, too much.
She shrugged and walked faster.
At the same time, Diego was standing in front of a shelf in a small bookstore on West 10th Street, wondering if his girlfriend would kill him if he gave her a book about Japanese tea ceremonies.
Probably not kill him. But that look. That particular look she gave him when she thought he wasn't paying attention.
He put the book back.
The saleswoman behind the counter leafed through a magazine and pretended not to notice him. Outside, the first snow of the evening drifted through the air, uncertain and hesitant, as if unsure whether to fall or disappear.
Diego rubbed his eyes. He'd drunk three cups of coffee at lunchtime and then forgotten to eat. His shift at the restaurant had run longer than planned—a colleague was sick, and he'd had to fill in. Now it was almost six, and he still hadn't bought anything for her parents.
Her mother. Jesus. The woman was like a kind but relentless scanner. She saw everything. Noticed every detail. And then she smiled as if she understood you even before you knew what you felt.
He was afraid of her. In a respectful way.
His phone vibrated in his jacket pocket. Maya.
"Are you done? I'm going through hell at Macy's."
He smiled and tapped back.
"Almost. Where do we meet?"
The three small dots blinked. Then:
"Rockefeller. One hour?"
He sent a thumbs-up emoji and put his phone back in his pocket. An hour. That was doable. Maybe.
Maya found the scarf shelf on the third floor, between perfume and handbags. There were hundreds of scarves. Thousands, maybe. Silk, cashmere, wool, patterned, solid-colored, with fringes, without fringes.
She bit her lower lip.
"Can I help you?" A saleswoman materialized next to her, too close, too eager.
"No, thank you. I'm just looking."
The woman smiled – a smile that didn't reach her eyes – and disappeared again.
Maya picked up a cream-colored scarf. It felt soft, but somehow impersonal. She put it back. Picked up another. Dark blue with silver threads. Too flashy. A third. Gray. Too boring.
Her fingers trembled slightly.
She only noticed it when she paused and looked at her own hand.
That was ridiculous. It was just a scarf. They were just presents. It was just Christmas.
But it was the first Christmas that both families came together. Both of them. In the same room. In their apartment. The apartment that she and Diego had shared for eight months and that was still half made up of unlabeled moving boxes.
She took a deep breath.
The scarf in her hand was purple. Soft, almost grey, with a tiny shimmer.
Good enough.
She went to the checkout.
Diego finally found a small bakery on Bleecker Street that sold handmade cookies in vintage tins. The tins were printed with old New York City maps. He bought three: one for Maya's parents, one for his mother, and one for himself.
The woman behind the counter wrapped them in tissue paper and tied small ribbons around them. It looked like something a grown-up would give as a gift. Someone who had their life together.
He paid and left the store.
Outside, the snow had gained in determination. The flakes were larger now, denser. They landed on his hair and melted instantly. The air smelled clean, cold, of something distant and clear.
He started to walk. The bag of cans dangled from his wrist. The streets were full of people, all with their heads down, all with that peculiar mixture of haste and resignation. Christmas in the city was a choreography of collective stress.
His phone vibrated again.
"I'm already here. Where are you?"
He quickened his pace.
Rockefeller Center was a sea of lights and bodies.
Maya stood at the edge of the ice rink, watching the skaters move in slow, uncertain circles. Some held onto the boards. Others whirled past elegantly, as if ice were their natural element.
She had placed her shopping bags at her feet and was trying not to step on them.
"Hey."
She turned around.
Diego stood behind her, snow in his hair, his cheeks red from the cold. He wore his old leather jacket, too thin for this weather, but one he didn't want to give up. A small bag with a logo she didn't recognize dangled from his hand.
“Hey,” she said, only now realizing how tense her shoulders were.
He stepped beside her, following her gaze towards the ice rink.
“Shall we?” he asked.
"What?"
"Ice skating."
She laughed – a short, surprised sound. “Now?”
"Why not?"
"Because we're both terrible at it?"
"Exactly." He grinned. "That's why it's perfect."
She looked at him. His face was open, warm, despite the cold. It was that look he sometimes had – as if the world were less complicated than it felt. As if you could simply do things because you wanted to.
"Okay," she said.
His grin widened.
The ice skates were too narrow, and the laces wouldn't fit properly.
Maya sat on the bench struggling with her left shoe, while Diego had already finished and was waiting for her, his hands in his pockets, rocking impatiently.
"Do you need help?"
"No."
He sat down next to her anyway, took her foot onto his knee, and began to retie her shoelaces. His fingers worked quickly, precisely, without hesitation.
She looked down at his head. Snowflakes landed in his hair and stayed there, tiny crystalline accents. His breath rose in thin clouds.
"Done," he said, looking up. Their faces were close.
"Thank you," she murmured.
He stood up and held out his hand to her.
She took them.
The ice was smoother than she had expected.
Maya clung to Diego's arm as her feet moved beneath her like objects with a mind of their own. He laughed when she almost slipped, caught her, and for a moment they were both still, breathing in sync, too close to move.
Then he gently pushed her forward.
"You need to relax."
"I am relaxed."
"You look like you're trying to fend off an attack."
"I do that too. An attack by gravity."
He laughed again, and the sound stirred something in her chest. She laughed along, and suddenly the ice wasn't so slippery anymore, her feet not so unsteady.
They slid slowly forward, side by side, their fingers interlocked.
The lights above cast golden reflections on the ice. The city blurred at the edges of their vision, reduced to sound and movement. Inside here, in this small circle of cold and light, there was only the two of them.
"I'm afraid I'll forget something," she said suddenly.
He looked at her. "What do you mean?"
"For Christmas. Something important. I feel like I always forget something."
He squeezed her hand. "You never forget anything. You're the most organized person I know."
"That is not true."
"Yes. You have lists for your lists."
"That's not—" She paused, then laughed involuntarily. "Okay, maybe that's true."
They continued walking in silence for a while. The cold seeped through her jacket, but she barely noticed it. Diego's hand was warm, firm, an anchor.
"What if they don't like each other?" she asked.
"Who?"
"Our families."
He thought about it as they glided around a bend. "Then they don't like each other. Is that so bad?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
She didn't know how to explain it. It wasn't about their families. It was about… whatever this was. This apartment, this city, this life they were building together. Sometimes it felt like a house of cards. Beautiful, but fragile.
"I want it to work," she finally said.
He stopped and turned to her. The other runners flowed around her like water around stones.
"It will work," he said. His voice was calm, firm. "Not because everything is perfect. But because we are. Together."
She looked into his eyes. They were dark, warm, full of that ridiculous, unshakable confidence he sometimes had.
"That doesn't make any sense," she whispered.
“Yes,” he said. “It makes the only sense that matters.”
And then he kissed her.
The ice slipped beneath her feet, but she didn't fall. His hand was on her cheek, cold and warm at the same time, and the world kept turning, but slower now, more gently.
As they separated, he smiled.
"Come on," he said. "One more round."
She nodded.
Later, when they were back in their street shoes, shopping bags in hand, they walked back to the subway through the falling snow.
The city felt different. Quieter. As if the snow had laid a blanket over the noise.
"Do you have everything?" asked Diego.
"Almost. And you?"
"Almost."
They both smiled.
“We can do this,” she said, more to herself than to him.
“Yes,” he said. “We do.”
The apartment was quiet when they opened the door.
The moving boxes were still there, unlabeled and silent, but somehow less accusatory than usual. The small Christmas tree in the corner was lit with cheap white lights they had bought at Target.
Maya dropped her bags and sank onto the couch.
Diego flopped down next to her.
"Tired?" he asked.
"Total."
He put his arm around her, and she rested her head on his shoulder. Outside, the snow continued to fall, silently and steadily. The city lights flickered through the windows like distant stars.
"We have to leave early tomorrow morning," she murmured. "Wrap the presents. Prepare the food. Clean up. The—"
"Maya."
"Yes?"
"Breathe."
She took a deep breath, then slowly let it go.
"Better?" he asked.
"Better."
They both closed their eyes. The warmth between them created its own little climate, independent of the cold outside.
"I love you," she said softly.
"I know," he said. "I love you too."
She smiled, even though he couldn't see it.
Outside, the city continued to shine, thousands of lights, thousands of lives, all caught up in their own little stories. But in here, in this moment, there were only two.
And that was enough.
The next morning, Maya woke up early.
The sun hadn't risen yet, but the sky had that special blue color that only exists in winter. She got up quietly so as not to wake Diego and went into the kitchen.
The refrigerator hummed softly. She opened it and saw the Tupperware containers with the prepared ingredients. Everything was there. Everything was organized.
She made coffee and stood by the window.
Outside, a thin layer of snow lay on the fire escapes and roofs. The city was still quiet, almost gentle in this early light.
She heard Diego get up behind her, his footsteps on the wooden floor.
"Good morning," he murmured, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind.
"Morning."
They stood like that for a while, without speaking, simply breathing.
"Ready?" he finally asked.
She turned in his arms and looked at him. His hair was disheveled, his eyes still half-closed. He looked like someone juggling too many things, yet he would never stop smiling.
“Yes,” she said. “Ready.”
The day was a whirlwind of activity.
They wrapped presents, chopped vegetables, dusted surfaces that no one but them would notice. Diego put on music—old salsa records his mother loved—and they moved through the apartment like dancers in a familiar choreography.
The doorbell rang for the first time at three o'clock.
Maya's parents. Her mother entered with that mixture of curiosity and criticism that she had perfected. Her father smiled wearily and handed Maya a bottle of wine.
"It's lovely here," said her mother, looking around. Her eyes lingered on the moving boxes.
“We’re not quite finished setting up yet,” Maya quickly explained.
"That's okay," her father said gently. "It takes time to build a home."
Diego's family arrived an hour later.
His mother brought a whole pot of Arroz con Gandules, even though Maya had told her she didn't need to bring anything. His brother had headphones around his neck and looked like he'd rather be anywhere else. His aunt—the one with the scarves—hugged them both so tightly that Maya couldn't breathe for a moment.
"So nice to see you," she said in Spanish, and Diego translated, although Maya understood enough by now.
Dinner was chaotic.
Too many voices, too many stories, too much food on too small a table. But it worked. Somehow.
Maya's mother and Diego's mother discovered they had both lived in Manhattan in the 1980s, just a few blocks apart. Diego's brother showed Maya's father something on his phone that made them both laugh. The aunt told a story about a lost suitcase in Puerto Rico that no one quite understood, but which nevertheless made everyone smile.
Maya sat at the edge of the table and watched.
Diego caught her gaze and raised an eyebrow questioningly.
She smiled and nodded.
It wasn't perfect. But it was enough.
Later, when everyone had left and the washed plates were in the draining tray, they sat on the couch again.
The apartment smelled of food and candle wax. The Christmas tree was still lit up in the corner, a little crooked, but just right.
"That was good," Maya said quietly.
“Yes,” said Diego. “That was it.”
She leaned against him, feeling his heart beating beneath her ear.
It started snowing again outside.
"Merry Christmas," she whispered.
"Merry Christmas," he whispered back.
And at that moment, in that small apartment in that big city, everything was exactly as it should be.
Imperfect. Chaotic. Real.
And that's enough.
