The air bit like winter teeth as Emma adjusted the hem of her dress, her reflection flickering in the hallway mirror.
“Won’t you freeze in that? It’s below zero out there, love,” her mum fretted, hovering in the doorway.
“It’s just round the block. I’m not turning up to Sophie’s birthday in jeans, am I?” Emma tugged the belt of her dress tighter, ignoring the cold already creeping under the front door.
“Is Liam picking you up?”
“No, he’s running late—fixing his mate’s laptop.” She waved a hand, slipping her heels into a bag.
“He could leave it till tomorrow. It’s not safe, walking alone at this hour.”
“Mum, no one cares about that anymore. Honestly.” The front door clicked open, and she was halfway down the stairs before her mother could protest further.
Liam had never been her mum’s favourite—ever since he’d kissed Emma right there in the kitchen, bold as brass. “No manners, that one,” her mum had muttered once he was gone.
Emma dragged on her coat, wound a thick scarf around her neck.
“No hat?”
“I just curled my hair!” The door slammed behind her.
Frost gnawed at her cheeks the moment she stepped outside, sharp as a blade. She buried her nose in her scarf, hurrying toward Sophie’s flat. Liam should’ve been here by now. She’d called him half an hour ago. “Stop distracting me, then I’ll be quick,” he’d snapped. So she didn’t call again.
The stairwell was dim, the muffled thump of bass vibrating through the walls. The flat door was ajar—some lad slipping out for a fag, probably. Or maybe Sophie left it open for stragglers. Either way, Emma slipped inside, unnoticed in the crush of bodies.
The living room pulsed with neon light and laughter. People swayed, drinks sloshing. No sign of Sophie.
Emma edged toward the kitchen, dodging elbows and spilled vodka. Then—the door swung open.
Sophie stood there, lips swollen, hair mussed. Behind her—Liam, fingers raking through his own tangled mess.
“You’re here already?” Emma’s voice sounded distant, like it belonged to someone else.
Sophie blinked, then grinned—as if nothing were wrong. “Party’s in full swing! You’re late. Drink? Dance?” She breezed past.
“You didn’t call,” Emma said to Liam. “Too busy?”
“Just got here myself.” He leaned in to kiss her—she flinched back.
Sophie’s perfume clung to him.
“Emma, come on—we were just cutting up some crisps—”
“Wipe her lipstick off your cheek first.” She shoved the gift bag into his hands and pushed through the crowd.
The hall spun as she yanked on her boots, coat half-draped over her shoulders. The scarf slipped, tumbling down the stairs. She bent to grab it—Liam’s voice echoed behind her.
“Emma, you’ve got it all wrong!”
She ran.
Outside, the cold was a slap. She’d left her shoes. No matter. Let him keep them. “How could he? Came early and didn’t even— And Sophie? Some friend.” Tears froze on her lashes.
Where now? Home? Her mum would fuss, say she’d never liked Liam anyway. The cathedral? Too crowded, too far.
A corner shop glowed ahead. Empty, save for the bored cashier watching her. Emma wrapped her scarf over her head like a hood and stepped back into the dark.
Footsteps crunched behind her. A figure in black, hood up, keeping pace.
She walked faster—so did he.
“Running from someone?”
She ignored him.
“Got your heart broken? Don’t waste tears. If he left, he never loved you.”
Emma halted, ready to snap—but his eyes were kind. No threat.
They walked in silence to her door.
“Thanks,” she muttered.
“Couldn’t leave you out here.” A pause. “I’m Oliver.”
“Emma. Going to ask for my number now?”
“Would you give it?”
She did.
Inside, she realised—she wasn’t crying over Liam anymore.
“Back early,” her mum said, eyes fixed on the telly. Midnight Mass hummed softly.
“Too cold.”
Alone in her room, the hurt hit like a train. Liam. Sophie. Gone.
“Don’t waste tears,” Oliver had said.
She whispered it to herself, weeping.
Church hymns drifted through the walls. The moon hung huge and pale outside.
Oliver called the next day. “Too icy for skating. Fancy a film?”
Why not? It’d help her forget.
Coffee after, easy chatter. They met daily after that.
Liam never called. Sophie did—shoeless, full of excuses. “Just a kiss, yeah? Nothing else.”
The apology rang hollow. It wasn’t the kiss that stung—it was Liam not waiting, not chasing her.
Not loving her.
Oliver proposed within months.
“You barely know him,” her mum warned.
“Did you know Dad well? How long did you date before marrying?”
“Two years.”
“Two years. Still didn’t stop him walking out, did it?”
Her mum sighed. “You’re all grown up.”
A son came first, then a daughter. Emma couldn’t imagine life without Oliver.
The right love finds you—maybe even on a freezing Christmas Eve.
Miracles aren’t just for stories.
Not that it matters when or where—only that you don’t walk past them.
