I believe in pink. I believe that laughing is the best calorie

Host: The morning began like a dream painted in soft pastels — the kind that fades too quickly if you stare too long. The sky was a pale rose, the sea just beyond the balcony shimmered like melted silver, and the wind carried the faint smell of salt and fresh coffee. A small seaside café stood at the edge of the cliff, its awnings fluttering, its chairs still wet from the night rain.

Jeeny sat at one of the tables, wrapped in a light cream coat, her hair tumbling over her shoulders, eyes closed against the breeze. Across from her, Jack leaned back in his chair, his hands in his pockets, his eyes half-closed beneath the rim of his cap. The world was quiet except for the murmur of the waves, the distant call of a seagull, and the faint clatter of porcelain cups.

Jeeny: “You know what Audrey Hepburn once said, Jack? ‘I believe in pink. I believe that laughing is the best calorie burner. I believe in kissing, kissing a lot. I believe in being strong when everything seems to be going wrong. I believe that happy girls are the prettiest girls. I believe that tomorrow is another day and I believe in miracles.’”

Jack: (chuckling softly) “Sounds like something you’d have framed over your mirror.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I should. There’s something about it — something tender and unashamed. She wasn’t pretending life was easy; she was choosing to see beauty despite it.”

Host: Jack tilted his head, watching her. The light caught her eyes, making them glimmer like wet amber. He took a slow sip of his coffee, its steam curling into the cold air.

Jack: “You make it sound poetic. But sometimes optimism feels like denial in a pretty dress.”

Jeeny: “You think hope is denial?”

Jack: “When the world’s burning, yeah. Laughing doesn’t fix hunger. Believing in pink doesn’t stop the dark from spreading.”

Jeeny: “And cynicism doesn’t stop it either. You can curse the dark all you want — it still wins unless you light something. Audrey’s words weren’t naïve; they were defiant.”

Host: The wind picked up, lifting the corners of a nearby newspaper that someone had left behind. Its headline screamed of political chaos, inflation, conflict — the usual daily noise of a tired world. Jack glanced at it, then looked back at Jeeny, his expression hardening.

Jack: “You really think a smile changes any of that? People cling to optimism because it’s easier than facing how cruel things are. We wear ‘happy’ like makeup.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But isn’t that what art does too? You paint, you draw — and you never paint the pain directly. You transform it. That’s what she was doing — turning despair into grace. It’s not makeup; it’s armor.”

Host: The sunlight began to break through the clouds, spilling over the ocean in thin rays. A few tourists walked by, their voices echoing softly, fragments of laughter carried by the breeze.

Jack: “You really believe in that kind of strength? Smiling through pain, pretending it doesn’t exist?”

Jeeny: “Not pretending — enduring. You know Hepburn worked with UNICEF after the war, right? She saw famine, death, all of it — yet she still said, ‘I believe in pink.’ That’s not naivety. That’s resistance in silk gloves.”

Jack: (after a pause) “You always turn things into poetry, Jeeny. But some days, it feels like believing in miracles is the same as refusing to grow up.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s the opposite. It takes a grown heart to believe again after everything it’s seen. Children believe because they don’t know better. Adults believe because they’ve suffered — and choose to hope anyway.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, his eyes darting away to the horizon. The waves crashed harder now, the sound rhythmic, almost angry. His voice dropped lower, rougher.

Jack: “When my mother was dying, she used to say that too. ‘Tomorrow’s another day.’ But tomorrow just kept coming, and she kept getting weaker. I stopped believing in tomorrows then.”

Jeeny: (softly) “And yet here you are — breathing, living, painting. That means a part of you still did.”

Jack: “Or maybe I just didn’t have a choice.”

Jeeny: “We always have a choice. You could’ve shut down completely, but you didn’t. You still create. You still wake up. That’s faith, even if you call it survival.”

Host: The wind softened again, and for a moment, the world seemed to pause. The smell of salt mixed with the aroma of coffee and seaweed. A lone child nearby laughed as he chased a drifting balloon.

Jeeny: (watching the child) “See that? That’s what Hepburn meant. That kind of laughter — that’s life’s rebellion against gravity. Every giggle is a little miracle.”

Jack: “You sound like a philosopher disguised as a romantic.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because life demands both. You need reason to see the world clearly, but love to survive it.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You think laughter burns more than calories, huh?”

Jeeny: “It burns fear. Every time you laugh, you’re telling pain it doesn’t get the last word.”

Host: Jack’s smile widened — reluctantly at first, then freely. The light hit him just right, and for a second, his cynicism looked like it was cracking.

Jack: “You know, you’re dangerous when you talk like that. You make even hopelessness sound curable.”

Jeeny: “That’s because it is. The world doesn’t need more realists — it needs more believers. In pink, in laughter, in tomorrow.”

Host: The barista brought them another cup of coffee, steam swirling like ghostly lace above it. Jack took a sip, his hands warming slowly.

Jack: “So you think happiness makes someone beautiful?”

Jeeny: “Absolutely. Not the polished kind — the raw kind. The kind that fights to exist. That’s the beauty Hepburn meant — not perfection, but perseverance with a smile.”

Jack: (gazing at her) “You really do believe in miracles, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “I have to. Otherwise, what’s the point of surviving all this?”

Host: A long silence fell, broken only by the hiss of the sea. Jack looked out toward the horizon, where the sky was clearing, streaked now with gentle pink.

Jack: “Maybe the miracle isn’t something that happens to us. Maybe it’s something we become — when we still manage to laugh, or love, after everything.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Exactly. That’s the real miracle.”

Host: The clouds finally parted, revealing a full sun, gold and radiant. It washed over the café, turning every raindrop on the table into tiny jewels. Jeeny’s hair caught the light, glowing softly. Jack reached out, brushing a single strand away from her face.

Jack: “You know, maybe I do believe in pink — just a little.”

Jeeny: “Good. It suits you.”

Host: She laughed, bright and clear — the kind of laughter that feels like music, like rain falling on tired earth. Jack joined her, and for a brief, fragile moment, the world outside their little café didn’t seem broken at all.

And as the morning unfolded, with the sun rising higher and the waves gleaming like spilled light, two souls sat side by side — one skeptic, one dreamer — both believing, at last, in the quiet miracle of simply being alive.