Secret Santa

I got my ex in Secret Santa. The universe has jokes.

Our friend group did the annual draw. Eleven names in a hat, a £20 limit, an unspoken rule that it had to be thoughtful but not romantic. I pulled a slip. Unfolded it. Saw his name.

Jamie.

My ex. We'd been together eight months, broken up for three. Our friends, bless them, are not good at picking sides. Everyone just kept pretending we're fine. So there we were, in a pub on December 1st, me holding a slip of paper like it was a bomb.

I spent two weeks agonising. Too personal and it's weird. Too generic and it's cold. In the end, I bought him a plain grey scarf. Safe. Forgettable. A gift for a stranger.

Christmas Eve, the exchange. Everyone laughed, opened gifts, clinked glasses. I got a bath bomb from someone. Then Jamie handed me a small, wrapped box with a bow.

"I drew you," he said.

Of course he did. My luck.

Inside, a tiny silver necklace. A little crescent moon. I held it up. My eyes stung.

In March, on our second date, we'd walked past a jeweller's window. I paused. Just for a second. Said it was pretty and walked on. I never mentioned it again.

He remembered.

"It was twenty quid," he whispered. "I swear."

I checked the tag. It was fifty-five.

He'd paid the difference.

I'm wearing it right now.