How To Be Happy Forever

The fluorescent lights of the airport convenience kiosk buzzed against Andy’s ears as he fumbled his wallet out of his coat pocket. Cold air spilled from the sliding doors every time someone pushed through, smelling like jet fuel and wet wool. December 1, 2025 sat heavy in the background of everything-calendar pages flipping in the mind, the dull gray sky pressed flat against the glass. Andy’s fingers found the smooth edge of an iPad he’d tucked away earlier, and the screen lit up with a pale glow that made his skin look strange and ghostly.

He didn’t stop to think about whether he was being ridiculous. He stopped to do something about it.

“December 1,” he murmured to himself, tapping the date field with a thumb that already felt steadier than his thoughts. The number hovered, waiting. Around him, travelers wheeled bags over scuffed tile, wheels rattling like distant maracas, and a child somewhere laughed too loudly and then got shushed. Andy’s breath came out in small puffs. He could almost hear the moment he’d been circling since the first cold morning-how it felt to want something to be true without waiting for permission.

The iPad’s calendar sat there, obedient as a pet. Andy changed the date from Dec 1 to Dec 24. The screen flickered, then settled, as if the world had always meant to be that way.

His throat tightened anyway. “Okay,” he said, and the word sounded like a promise he wasn’t sure he deserved.

He walked fast through the terminal, the iPad held close under his arm like it could escape. Signs pointed toward gates with cheerful arrows that didn’t match the seriousness in his chest. At the security line, the metal detector made a sharp, rising beep when he stepped too close, and a staff member glanced at him with the bored patience of someone who’d seen every kind of nervous. Andy shifted his bag, feeling the thin fabric scrape his knuckles, and tried to look like a man who belonged exactly where he stood.

“Carry-on only,” the staff member said, not unkindly.

“It is,” Andy answered, and his voice came out steadier than he expected.

His objective was simple in his head: reach the North Pole, get Santa’s attention, and make Dec 24 real before anyone else could talk him out of it. But the obstacle arrived in the form of time-real time, the kind that didn’t care what he wanted. Boarding started, voices echoed, and the gate agent called final boarding with a ringtone that felt too bright for the cold.

Andy had to wait.

When he finally stepped onto the plane, the cabin air smelled like recycled paper and old coffee. Seats creaked as people settled, and someone behind him kept tapping a phone screen, the sound sharp and impatient. Andy clicked the iPad’s lock screen to wake it again, watching the date sit there: Dec 24. The numbers looked too clean, too confident, like they’d never heard of December 1.

As the plane door sealed with a dull thud, the window glass fogged slightly at the edges. Andy leaned his forehead against the cool surface and tried to picture Santa-how he would sound, how he would react, whether magic would care about a human man’s stubbornness. The thought made him smile once, then swallow it back.

Across the aisle, a woman jostled her tray table down with a metallic clack. “Do you think it’ll snow today?” she asked someone, as if the question belonged to her life.

Andy didn’t answer. He stared at the iPad until the screen dimmed and the date became harder to see.

Later, when the engines started and the plane vibrated like a held note, Andy pulled the iPad close and opened the calendar again. Dec 24 glowed back at him. He could almost feel the weight of the next conversation, the way a refusal might land like a slap. Santa wouldn’t deliver yet, not while the world still insisted on Dec 1.

The plane lifted, and the hum of the engines filled his bones. Andy watched the runway lights shrink, turning into tiny dots that seemed to say, quietly, that reality was moving on without him.

He didn’t let himself look away.

When they finally landed in the cold that felt sharper than the airport air, Andy’s breath turned visible again immediately, like the atmosphere had teeth. The North Pole was quieter than he expected-no constant chatter, no busy terminal noise, just a hush that made every step sound louder than it should. Snow crunched under boots, and the sky looked like it had been brushed with ash-gray paint.

Andy walked until he found the place he’d only ever pictured: a shape of warmth against white distance. Lights blinked softly, and the smell hit him first-gingerbread sweetness and something like roasted nuts, rich enough to make his stomach tighten.

A door opened with a gentle creak, and Santa appeared as if he’d been waiting right behind the curtain of air. His beard looked fuller than in Andy’s memory, his eyes bright and wary. He took in Andy’s face, then the iPad in Andy’s hands.

“Ho ho-” Santa began, but the sound died when he saw the screen.

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