Even if happiness forgets you a little bit, never completely

Host: The night was thick with fog, curling like ghostly silk along the edge of the pier. The sea breathed in long, heavy sighs, each wave striking the wooden posts with a dull, rhythmic melancholy. A single lantern swung in the wind, its light trembling against the dark water, like a memory refusing to die.

Jack stood, his hands buried deep in his coat pockets, his eyes fixed on the black horizon. Jeeny sat nearby on a bench, her hair pulled close around her face, her breath visible in the cold air. Between them — silence. The kind that feels like it’s listening.

Host: It was one of those nights when time seems to pause, unsure whether to move forward or turn back. The quote had come from a book Jeeny carried in her bag, its pages soft and yellowed — “Even if happiness forgets you a little bit, never completely forget about it.” Jacques Prévert.

Jeeny: (softly) “You ever think about that, Jack? That maybe it’s not happiness that leaves us, but we who stop remembering it?”

Jack: (a faint scoff) “I think happiness is like the weather, Jeeny. It comes and goes. You can’t chase it or control it. You just… wait for it to return.”

Host: His voice was low, almost lost to the wind, yet it carried a sharp edge — the tone of a man who had once waited too long.

Jeeny: “But waiting is still a kind of faith, isn’t it? A kind of remembering? Maybe Prévert meant that — to not let darkness make you forget that light once existed.”

Jack: “Faith.” (he laughs quietly) “You talk about it like it’s oxygen. But what if someone’s been drowning too long? You think a few memories of sunlight will keep them alive?”

Host: The fog grew thicker, swallowing the sea. A ship horn moaned in the distance, deep and lonely. Jeeny looked at Jack — not with pity, but with that sad tenderness one reserves for a person still bleeding from an old wound.

Jeeny: “You don’t have to believe in the same way, Jack. But you’ve seen it — people who survive because they hold on to a fragment of joy, even when it’s buried in pain. Think of the prisoners who sang in Auschwitz, or the soldiers who wrote letters to the moon during war. They had every reason to forget, but they didn’t.”

Jack: (turning toward her) “And how many didn’t, Jeeny? How many couldn’t remember at all? That’s the part no one likes to say out loud. Some people don’t get to have hope. Some are just… broken, and that’s it.”

Host: His words hung in the cold air, solid as stone. The wind caught Jeeny’s hair, whipping it across her face, but she didn’t move. She just watched him — like a mirror watching its own reflection.

Jeeny: “You think being broken means it’s over. But maybe that’s when happiness hides — when it’s testing if we’ll still call its name. Sometimes I think happiness forgets us a little… just to see if we’ll remember it back.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But life isn’t a test. It’s a grind. It wears you down until you stop looking for reasons and start accepting the emptiness. You think everyone can just summon happiness like a ghost?”

Jeeny: “Not summon. Invite. There’s a difference.”

Host: A pause. The lantern above them flickered, casting a soft glow on their faces. Jack’s grey eyes looked tired, the kind of tired that comes not from lack of sleep, but from years of wanting something that never stayed.

Jack: “And what if the invitation is never answered?”

Jeeny: “Then you keep sending it.”

Host: A long silence followed — the kind that presses against your chest, demanding truth. Somewhere below, the water slapped against the pier, soft but relentless.

Jack: “You really think it’s that simple?”

Jeeny: “No. But I think it’s that important.”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly, not from the cold, but from the weight of her own conviction.

Jeeny: “Look at the world, Jack. Every day there’s violence, loss, loneliness. People are hurting everywhere. And yet — they still paint, they still write, they still laugh at small things. That’s not because they’ve forgotten pain. It’s because they’ve chosen not to forget happiness.”

Jack: “You sound like one of those optimists who think love can heal everything.”

Jeeny: “I’m not an optimist. I just don’t want to be a corpse that’s still breathing.”

Host: Her words cut through the fog like a knife. Jack looked at her, really looked — the way one looks at a painting they’ve seen a thousand times, suddenly noticing a hidden detail.

Jack: “You think I’ve forgotten how to live?”

Jeeny: “I think you’ve just stopped believing there’s a reason to.”

Host: The tension between them was palpable, a thin wire strung tight between truth and fear. The air was heavy, filled with the smell of salt and rust and things unsaid.

Jack: “You talk like happiness is some kind of moral duty.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe remembering it is an act of defiance. In a world that keeps breaking you, remembering happiness is a way of saying, ‘You didn’t take everything from me.’”

Host: Her eyes burned — not with anger, but with a kind of holy defiance. The kind that could set fire to darkness.

Jack: (quietly) “You know, I used to think like that.”

Jeeny: “Used to?”

Jack: “Yeah. Before… before my brother died. After that, happiness didn’t just forget me — it erased me. Every day felt like a repetition of grief. People said it would pass, that I’d find new joy. But I didn’t. I just got better at pretending.”

Host: The words fell like stones, one after another. Jeeny’s hand twitched, as if she wanted to reach out, but didn’t. The sea was still now, as if it too were listening.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s all we can do sometimes — pretend, until the pretending becomes real again.”

Jack: “You think pretending brings happiness back?”

Jeeny: “No. I think it keeps the door open.”

Host: The wind softened, and with it, the edge in Jack’s voice. He exhaled, long and slow, like a man finally letting something go.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, I used to climb the hill behind our house just to watch the sunrise. I thought if I saw the first light, it meant the day couldn’t hurt me. Haven’t done that in twenty years.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Maybe you should again.”

Jack: “Maybe I should.”

Host: A small smile found its way to his lips, fragile but real. Jeeny stood, walked to the edge of the pier, and looked out over the dark water.

Jeeny: “Happiness is like that sunrise, Jack. Even when it’s hidden, it’s still coming. Maybe slower than you want, maybe quieter — but it’s there.”

Host: Jack joined her. They stood side by side, faces turned toward the invisible horizon. The fog began to lift, the first silver thread of dawn appearing in the distance.

Jack: “Even if it forgets us a little bit…”

Jeeny: “…we never completely forget about it.”

Host: The sun broke through — not bright, but gentle, golden, like a long-forgotten promise being kept. For a moment, both of them simply stood in that light, their shadows stretching into the sea, and the world felt — if only for a breath — forgiven.