December 25, 2025 Every December, the Ghost of Christmas Past returns. Usually via text.

Men you haven’t heard from since rooftop season suddenly remember your existence. A name lights up
your phone you mentally archived somewhere between “we had fun” and “why did I entertain that.”

“Hey beautiful.”
“Thinking of you.”
“How have you been?”

Seasonal. Sentimental. Still unearned.

The holidays have a way of resurrecting unfinished situations. Dickens would’ve warned you — but
instead of chains, they’re carrying audacity.

Men who vanished all year suddenly show up like Scrooge after one good dream. Lots of reflection.
Very little reform.

This isn’t romance. It’s seasonal haunting.

Ghosts don’t come back with plans. They come back with nostalgia and plausible deniability — just
enough warmth to test access and see if the door is still unlocked.

They don’t say what they want.
They don’t explain the disappearance.
They pretend time didn’t pass — as if nothing ever happened.

They just hover.

And here’s the tell: If someone couldn’t show up when life was ordinary, they don’t get bonus access
because there’s a wreath on the door.

Holiday energy doesn’t change character. It just softens the lighting.

Ghosts thrive in low visibility. They count on nostalgia doing the heavy lifting — on you filling in the
blanks, on the idea of what it could be feeling better than remembering what it actually was.

But presence isn’t seasonal. Interest doesn’t expire and renew. And growth doesn’t arrive wrapped in
“hey beautiful.”

If someone vanished without explanation, consistency, or care, that wasn’t a cliffhanger. That was the
ending.

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