Happiness is in our own hearts. I have no regrets of anything in

Host: The afternoon light slanted through the window blinds, striping the old café in ribbons of gold and shadow. Outside, the streets hummed with the soft noise of traffic, a guitarist played by the corner, and the air smelled faintly of coffee, baked bread, and rain drying on the pavement.

It was the kind of place where time seemed to slow down — not stop, but breathe easier.

Jack sat near the window, his laptop closed, his hands wrapped around a cup of coffee that had long gone cold. His eyes were distant — not cold, not sad, but quietly detached, like someone replaying scenes from a life that didn’t quite add up.

Jeeny came in carrying a small bouquet of wild daisies, her hair loose and a little messy from the wind. She spotted him, smiled, and slid into the seat across from him, setting the flowers between them.

Jeeny: “You look like someone who’s been talking to ghosts again.”

Jack: “Just memories. They’re quieter.”

Jeeny: “Quiet doesn’t always mean peace.”

Host: She stirred her tea, the spoon clinking softly — a sound that filled the silence between them. The sunlight shifted, catching the soft curve of her cheek, the tiny smile that never stayed long but always changed the air when it appeared.

Jeeny: “You know what Maeve Binchy once said? ‘Happiness is in our own hearts. I have no regrets of anything in the past. I’m totally cheerful and happy, and I think that a lot of your attitude is not in the circumstances you find yourself in, but in the circumstances you make for yourself.’”

Jack: “Maeve Binchy… the novelist, right? I remember. She wrote about small towns and big hearts.”

Jeeny: “And the magic of ordinary days.”

Jack: “Right. Sounds nice in books. But in life? People don’t just make happiness. They stumble into it — if they’re lucky.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. They build it. Bit by bit. Like patchwork. Out of the scraps they have.”

Jack: “You make it sound like it’s that simple. Just decide to be happy and — poof — there it is.”

Jeeny: “Not decide. Practice. Happiness isn’t a mood, it’s maintenance.”

Host: Jack smirked, but his eyes softened, the faintest flicker of curiosity breaking through the gloom that hung around him.

Jack: “So, what? You wake up every morning, look in the mirror, and decide, ‘Today I’m happy’? Even when everything’s falling apart?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Especially then.”

Jack: “That’s not happiness. That’s denial.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. That’s choosing to carry light even when the world offers you shadows.”

Host: The wind rattled the door, carrying in the faint sound of laughter from the street. Jeeny’s gaze followed it — the sound, the light, the life outside.

Jeeny: “You know what’s strange? Maeve Binchy had heart problems all her life. She knew loss. Yet she was still cheerful. She once said she refused to ‘waste time being miserable’ — because time itself was precious.”

Jack: “Easy to say when you’re famous, successful, loved.”

Jeeny: “She wasn’t always. She worked as a journalist for years, got rejected by publishers. She didn’t find success until her forties. You think she waited for happiness until then?”

Jack: “So, she just… ignored pain?”

Jeeny: “No. She turned it into story. That’s the difference between people who survive life and those who live it. Some run from pain. Others write it into joy.”

Host: The light flickered as a cloud passed. The café dimmed, and for a moment, it felt like the world was holding its breath — the noise outside fading, the air thick with thought.

Jack: “You really believe attitude can change reality?”

Jeeny: “No. But it can change how we live reality. The same storm can drown one person and wash another clean.”

Jack: “You sound like my mother. She used to say everything was about perspective. Even death.”

Jeeny: “Maybe she was right.”

Jack: “She died smiling. I hated that. It felt… wrong. Like she’d given up pretending that pain was unfair.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe she’d stopped fighting happiness like it was a luxury.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, his hands clasped. The faint hum of conversation around them blurred into silence. His voice, when he spoke again, was quieter — stripped of defense.

Jack: “You know, I used to think happiness had to be earned. That you could only deserve it after proving yourself. After building something, fixing everything that broke.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now… I’m not sure I’ve earned anything.”

Jeeny: “Maybe happiness isn’t about earning. Maybe it’s about allowing.”

Jack: “Allowing what?”

Jeeny: “The possibility that joy doesn’t need justification.”

Host: The sunlight returned, golden again, catching the steam rising from their cups. The air felt lighter, as if the conversation itself had loosened something tight in the room.

Jack: “You really think people can be happy in any circumstance?”

Jeeny: “Not all the time. But they can create moments of happiness inside them — little rooms of light they can return to.”

Jack: “And what about regret?”

Jeeny: “Regret is memory refusing to end. Happiness is forgiveness wearing new clothes.”

Jack: “You’re quoting poetry again.”

Jeeny: “No, I’m quoting life. Maeve Binchy lived what she wrote. She didn’t romanticize sorrow — she repurposed it.”

Host: A pause. Jack looked out the window, watching a child jump over puddles, her laughter echoing like a melody the world had forgotten.

Jack: “You ever envy people like that? The ones who seem effortlessly happy?”

Jeeny: “All the time. But then I remember — happiness isn’t effortless. It’s invisible effort. The kind you don’t see because it’s happening inside.”

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ve spent too long studying shadows instead of looking for light.”

Jeeny: “Then start small. One good thought, one kind word, one quiet gratitude. The heart’s like a muscle — it remembers how to open if you let it.”

Host: The waiter came by, refilled their cups. The steam rose again, curling between them like a living thread — fragile, beautiful, transient.

Jack: “So, happiness isn’t a result. It’s a habit.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And like all habits, it takes faith — not in luck, but in yourself.”

Jack: “I don’t know if I have that kind of faith anymore.”

Jeeny: “Then borrow mine until you do.”

Host: Jack laughed — quietly, almost shyly — and the sound carried warmth. The kind of laugh that doesn’t fix everything, but begins something.

Jack: “You make it sound so easy, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “It’s not easy. It’s just worth it.”

Host: Outside, the sunlight had turned richer now, pouring through the café in thick golden beams. Dust floated in it like stars. The world felt young again, at least for a breath.

Jack: “Maybe Maeve was right, then. Maybe happiness really is in the heart, not the world.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The world shifts, but the heart decides the weather.”

Jack: “And regrets?”

Jeeny: “Regrets are just yesterday’s clothes. Eventually, you outgrow them.”

Host: The clock ticked softly. The crowd thickened. The day went on, ordinary yet quietly radiant. Jeeny picked up the bouquet of daisies and handed it to him.

Jeeny: “Take these. They’re small, but alive. That’s all happiness ever asks.”

Host: He took them — awkwardly, almost self-consciously — and smiled. The first real smile he’d given in a long time.

Jack: “You know, for someone who talks like a poet, you’re a good realist.”

Jeeny: “That’s the secret. Realists just notice miracles in slower motion.”

Host: She stood to leave. The sunlight followed her as she moved, painting her silhouette in light. Jack sat still, watching her walk out, the bouquet resting in his hands like a gentle reminder of something he hadn’t lost — only forgotten.

The camera lingered on his face — the faintest shimmer of hope behind weary eyes, the world outside now brighter, not because it changed, but because he did.

And in the fading hum of the café, a quiet truth settled in the air like sunlight through glass:
Happiness is not found; it is made — moment by moment, heart by heart, until even the shadows begin to glow.