Count your blessings. You are one of a kind. There's no one in

Host: The morning sun poured through the wide windows of a small, cluttered kitchen, where the smell of toast, coffee, and warm light filled the air like a slow, gentle embrace. Dust motes danced in the golden air, tiny universes spinning lazily through the quiet. Outside, the city had already begun to stir — the hum of cars, distant voices, and the faint bark of a dog somewhere down the street.

Jack sat at the table, his hands wrapped around a chipped mug, his shirt sleeves rolled up, revealing tired forearms and a faint smudge of ink on his wrist. Jeeny stood by the counter, barefoot, her hair still damp from the shower, spreading jam onto toast with the absentminded grace of someone who’d learned to make peace with mornings.

On the radio, a cheerful voice — unmistakable, larger than life — drifted out with laughter in its rhythm:
"Count your blessings. You are one of a kind. There’s no one in the world like you. You are amazing."

Richard Simmons, from some old recording, bright as sunshine itself.

The radio clicked off.

Jeeny: smiling faintly, turning to Jack “Richard Simmons used to say that a lot. ‘Count your blessings. You are one of a kind. There’s no one in the world like you. You are amazing.’”

Jack: snorts softly, staring into his coffee “Yeah, and the world still managed to make most of us feel like factory rejects.”

Jeeny: walks over, sits across from him “You’d rather count your failures?”

Jack: shrugs “They’re easier to keep track of.”

Jeeny: “That’s because you feed them more.”

Jack: grinning faintly “You sound like a yoga app.”

Jeeny: grinning back “And you sound like someone allergic to joy.”

Host: The light shifted, painting their faces in gold and shadow. A breeze moved through the half-open window, carrying with it the faint scent of fresh bread from the bakery downstairs — the kind of smell that makes even cynics pause for half a second before pretending they don’t care.

Jeeny: softly “You know, I think Simmons was right. We’re all so busy trying to fix ourselves that we forget we’re already something worth keeping.”

Jack: leans back, thoughtful “That’s easy for a guy in sequins to say. He made a career out of optimism.”

Jeeny: “No — he made a career out of reminding people that kindness isn’t weakness. That being loud about love is brave.”

Jack: half-smiling “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: firmly “Completely.”

Jack: quietly, after a pause “I used to think people like that were naive. But maybe they’re the ones who survive — the ones who keep believing the world isn’t out to crush them.”

Jeeny: softly “Maybe surviving is believing.”

Host: She reached across the table, her fingers brushing his hand — light, patient, grounding. The air between them seemed to hum, filled not with words but with presence.

Jack: looking at their hands, murmuring “Count your blessings, huh?”

Jeeny: smiling softly “Yeah. Try it.”

Jack: pretending to think “Fine. One — the coffee’s not terrible. Two — the jam didn’t burn.”

Jeeny: laughing “You can do better.”

Jack: sighs, then quietly “Three — you’re still here.”

Jeeny: stops smiling, her eyes softening “That one counts double.”

Host: The sunlight brightened, streaming over the table, catching the glint of their cups, their eyes. The moment hung between them like something fragile but sacred — the realization that gratitude doesn’t have to be grand. It just has to be honest.

Jeeny: after a pause “You know, the world spends billions trying to convince us we’re not enough. Every ad, every post, every comparison. But one voice — one kind sentence — can undo years of that poison.”

Jack: nodding slowly “Yeah. It’s funny — we’d never talk to other people the way we talk to ourselves.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. If you called a friend what you call yourself, you’d lose them.”

Jack: grinning faintly “You saying I should start complimenting myself in the mirror?”

Jeeny: “Why not? You’ve spent enough time tearing yourself down. Balance it out.”

Jack: mockingly cheerful “Hello, handsome disaster, you’re doing great.”

Jeeny: laughing, genuine and light “That’s a start.”

Host: The sound of laughter filled the kitchen — not loud, but full, carrying something freer than either had felt in a while. The light outside shifted brighter, the city beginning to hum with daytime life — footsteps, car horns, living.

Jack: after the laughter fades “You really think people can believe that kind of stuff? That they’re one of a kind?”

Jeeny: softly, with conviction “I think they have to. Otherwise, what’s the point? Every sunrise, every heartbeat, every breath — all unrepeatable. We don’t need to be perfect to be precious.”

Jack: nodding slowly “You make it sound so easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. But it’s simple. Gratitude is rebellion in a world built on dissatisfaction.”

Jack: smirks “You should write that on a poster. With glitter.”

Jeeny: grinning “You’d buy it.”

Jack: quietly, sincere now “Yeah. Maybe I would.”

Host: The kettle whistled softly, steam curling upward like a benediction. Jeeny stood to pour more tea, and for a moment, Jack watched her — not as someone saving him, but as someone reminding him that he was worth saving.

Jeeny: pouring tea, without turning around “You know, counting your blessings isn’t about ignoring what hurts. It’s about remembering what’s left.”

Jack: after a pause “So what’s left for you?”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Morning light. Good tea. People who try. And the belief that no one is ordinary — not really.”

Jack: quietly “That last one’s hard for me.”

Jeeny: sits back down “That’s okay. I’ll believe it for both of us until you catch up.”

Host: He looked at her then, really looked — her quiet certainty, her eyes full of unshaken kindness. Something in his chest loosened, the kind of ache that doesn’t hurt anymore, just hums with memory and warmth.

Jack: softly “You really think I’m one of a kind?”

Jeeny: smiling “I know you are. And so am I. And so is everyone who still tries — even when it’s hard.”

Jack: after a moment, his voice barely above a whisper “Then maybe… maybe I’ll start trying again.”

Jeeny: grinning “That’s all I wanted to hear.”

Host: The camera pulled back, catching the sunlight spilling across the kitchen table, the half-eaten toast, the cooling coffee, and two people caught in the quiet miracle of being alive and seen.

Outside, the world glittered — not perfectly, but beautifully.

And somewhere in that soft, golden morning, Richard Simmons’ words echoed not from a radio, but from the unguarded space between two human hearts:

That no matter the mistakes, the losses, the noise of the world —
there’s still something miraculous about simply existing.

So count your blessings.
You are one of a kind.
There’s no one else like you.
And even when you forget it —
someone, somewhere,
will look at you and whisper,

“You are amazing.”