Elara's POV
The crumpled yellow notice was a live coal in her apron pocket, burning a hole straight through to her thigh. Every time she moved, she felt it. A constant, painful reminder of the ticking clock. Six days left. Six days. The number played on a loop in her mind, a frantic countdown to disaster.
Elara tried to force her hands to steady, to command her fingers to pipe neat, cheerful holly leaves onto the last batch of Christmas cookies. But her vision kept snagging on the black numbers she'd scrawled on the back of a receipt, now stained with buttercream. $15,000. $13,000 to go after mentally counting Mia's promised help. The mountain had shrunk, but now it was just a very, very steep cliff she was expected to scale with bare hands. $13,000. In six days now. Impossible. The word echoed. Impossible. Impossible. Impossible. It matched the rhythm of her heartbeat.
The icing came out wobbly, a sad, green squiggle. Pathetic, she thought, the word a hammer in her head. Like everything else, you try to hold together. You can't even decorate a cookie right today. She wanted to sweep the whole tray into the trash. To give up. To let the failure wash over her and be done with it. But giving up meant the gingerbread man on the window would be painted over. It meant strangers would sit where her dad used to drink his coffee, where her mom used to hum along to the radio. She couldn't let that happen. She wouldn't.
The bakery door burst open with a violent, shocking jingle. Elara jumped, her heart leaping to her throat. A blast of frozen air rushed in, followed by her best friend Mia, a whirlwind of pink cheeks, sparkling snowflakes in her hair, and the sugary scent of the carnival. "You! Are officially closed!" Mia announced, marching behind the counter like a general claiming territory. She plucked the icing bag from Elara's limp fingers.
"I'm not done."
"You're done. You've been 'not done' for an hour. You're just staring at cookies now. It's tragic." Mia pulled Elara's flour-dusted apron off over her head. "We're going. Winter Carnival. Right now. No arguments."
"I can't. The inventory list, the"
"Can wait. Your sanity cannot." Mia's smile was gentle, but her eyes were firm, knowing. She'd seen the notice. She'd seen the numbers. She'd seen the quiet disintegration in her friend's face over the last few weeks. "One hour. For me. For you. Before you become a permanent flour statue in this place."
Elara opened her mouth to argue, to list the thousand desperate reasons she had to stay chained to this sinking ship. But the words turned to ash. The walls felt closer every minute, pressing in. The quiet was a scream. The ghost of her parents' laughter in the empty kitchen was a constant, aching echo she couldn't escape. Maybe… maybe just one hour of overwhelming noise could drown it all out. Maybe she could borrow a shred of someone else's joy, even if it felt like stealing. She was so tired. So desperately tired of being afraid, of being alone, of carrying the weight of everything.
"Okay," she whispered, the word a surrender. "One hour."
The carnival was an all-out assault on her senses. Lights stabbed her eyes, strings of bulbs blinking with manic, festive urgency. Christmas music blared from tinny speakers with aggressive, relentless joy. Kids shrieked a sound of pure, unfiltered energy and no fear. The air was a thick, greasy soup of frying oil, diesel from the generators, and cold. It was everything she hated: the forced, performative festivity, the crowd of people whose biggest worry was whether they'd win a giant stuffed bear. Look at them all, so happy, she thought, a bitter taste in her mouth. Don't they know the world is breaking? Don't they see how fragile everything is?
She felt like an alien observing a strange ritual. The laughter sounded hollow to her ears, the smiles seemed painted on. How could people be so carefree when her world was ending? It felt unfair, a cruel joke. She wanted to scream at them all to stop, to be quiet, to acknowledge the pain that existed just outside the glow of the carnival lights.
Mia bought them hot chocolates piled with a mountain of whipped cream and dragged her toward the ring-toss games. "Look! How adorable is that!" she giggled, pointing.
It was a giant, lit-up archway of plastic mistletoe erected in the town square. A sign painted in cheerful cursive proclaimed: Holiday Courage Challenge! Find a Stranger, Share a Festive Kiss, Win a Prize!
Elara's stomach turned over. "That's the most ridiculous, contrived thing I've ever seen."
"It's festive! It's spontaneous!"
"It's a public health hazard," Elara muttered, sipping her too-sweet drink, the warmth doing nothing to thaw the ice in her core. The idea of kissing a stranger made her skin crawl. It felt like a violation, even as a joke. Her lips still remembered her parents' goodnight kisses, the last ones she'd ever received from them. The idea of pressing them against a stranger for a cheap thrill felt like a betrayal of that memory.
Then Mia got The Look. The scheming, bright-eyed, trouble-brewing look that had preceded every one of their childhood misadventures. She turned, gripping Elara's shoulders, her face suddenly sober. "I have a proposition."
"I'm not in a propositional mood."
"Hear me out." Mia's voice dropped, serious. "You do it. You walk up to a random, decent-looking guy under that mistletoe, and you kiss him. A real one. For, like, five full seconds."
Elara stared, certain she'd misheard. "Have you lost your actual mind?"
"If you do it," Mia said, her words slow and deliberate, "I will give you $2,000. Tonight. As a loan. No payback timeline."
The world narrowed. The carnival noise, the bells, the screams, the music faded into a dull, distant buzz. $2,000. It wasn't the answer, but it was a rope thrown into the deep, dark well where she was drowning. A glimmer. A single, solid rung on the impossible ladder. Two thousand dollars. For a kiss. Her mind raced. It was wrong. It was humiliating. It was… a possibility. The only one she had. Her principles screamed in protest. She wasn't that kind of person. She didn't use her body, her affection, as currency. But then she remembered the yellow paper, the numbers, the eviction. Principles wouldn't keep a roof over her head. Dignity wouldn't pay the bank.
"You… your year-end bonus. That's for your new car."
"A car can wait. A home can't." Mia's eyes were unbearably kind, which somehow made it worse. "One kiss, Ara. For the bakery. For your dad's stupidly finicky sourdough starter. For your mom's recipe box. For the ghost of Christmas past that lives in your walls."
The hook sank in, sharp and deep, past her pride and into the raw, bleeding need beneath. It was insane. It was humiliating. It was also the only offer on the table in a desert of nothing. She looked at the mistletoe arch, at the laughing couples posing for silly photos beneath it. Then she scanned the crowd—a sea of anonymous winter hats and scarves, a blur of strangers living stranger-less lives. Could I? Could I really do that? Walk up to a man and just… Her stomach churned. The hot chocolate felt like acid in her throat.
Her heart hammered, a frantic, trapped bird against her ribs. $2,000. For her home. Could she trade five seconds of her dignity for a shred of hope? What other choice do you have? a cold, practical voice whispered inside her. It sounded like survival. Pride is a decoration. It doesn't keep the rain out. No one will know but you and Mia. It's not real. It's a transaction. Like selling a loaf of bread. But it didn't feel like selling bread. It felt like selling a piece of her soul.
She thought of her parents. What would they say? Her father, with his strong morals and gentle heart. Her mother, with her fierce protectiveness. They'd be horrified. They'd tell her she was worth more. But they weren't here. They'd left her alone to fight this battle, and she was losing. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Wasn't that what people said?
She looked at Mia, at the earnest hope in her friend's eyes. Mia was trying to help. She was throwing her a lifeline, even if it was a strange, embarrassing one. To refuse it would be to spit in the face of the only person who still cared. To choose pride over survival.
She looked back at the crowd. A man in a reindeer sweater laughed loudly. A couple shared a churro. A child cried for a balloon. Normal people. Normal lives. Could she really walk up to one of them and do this? Could she cross that line?
Her palms were sweating despite the cold. Her breath came in short, sharp puffs that fogged in the air. The decision felt monumental, a fork in the road of her life. One path led to humiliation but possible salvation. The other led to dignified ruin.
For the bakery, she told herself, the words were a mantra. Do it for them. For their memory. So their dream doesn't die with you.
She looked at the crowd again, her eyes scanning for the right target. Not too young. Not too old. Not too friendly. Someone who looked… safe, in a distant, uninterested way. Someone who wouldn't make a scene. Someone who would let it happen and then let her disappear.
Her gaze landed on a tall figure standing apart, near a cart selling roasted chestnuts. He was alone. He looked… serious. Unapproachable. Perfect.
She took a deep, shuddering breath. The decision was made. The line was about to be crossed.
She looked at the crowd, her stomach a tight, twisted knot of fear and shame, wondering if she was brave enough or just finally, truly desperate enough to walk straight into the humiliation.