I had a birthday party with my family and friends at a house, and

Host: The evening hum of the suburbs was alive with quiet joy — laughter floating through the open windows, the smell of grilled corn and cilantro-rich rice winding through the air. A string of lights hung lazily across a backyard fence, flickering like captured stars. On the old wooden table: paper plates, half-eaten burritos, and a spilled margarita catching the golden glow of sunset.

Jack leaned against the back porch rail, a beer in hand, his face half-shadowed by twilight. Jeeny sat cross-legged on the deck steps, barefoot, her dress slightly crumpled, her smile faint and reflective.

From the corner of the yard, a bluetooth speaker played faint music — some nostalgic 2000s track everyone pretended not to remember.

On the table between them, someone had printed and left a small card, maybe as a joke — a quote from an interview:

"I had a birthday party with my family and friends at a house, and Chipotle catered. It was beautiful." — Ansel Elgort.

Jeeny: “You know… it’s funny. Of all the things he could have said about fame, success, or art — he chose that. A backyard, some friends, and Chipotle.”

Jack: “Yeah. Real poetic — wrapped in foil and guac.”

Host: Jack smirked, taking a slow sip. The light reflected in his eyes, making them glint like steel softened by something warmer.

Jeeny: “You mock it, but maybe that’s the point. Simplicity can be beautiful too.”

Jack: “Simplicity’s just what people call it when they can’t afford something grand.”

Jeeny: “Or it’s what people return to after realizing the grand never filled them.”

Host: A breeze drifted across the yard, carrying the faint scent of lime and laughter from inside. The sound of someone telling a story — a burst of joy, a chorus of voices — rose and faded like the tide.

Jack: “Come on, Jeeny. You really think a burrito night and plastic cups are beautiful?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Because beauty isn’t in the price tag, Jack — it’s in the presence. When you stop pretending, stop performing. Just people, food, laughter — and no one trying to impress anyone else. That’s rare.”

Jack: “Sounds boring to me. Ordinary.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Ordinary — that’s what makes it holy.”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly — not from sadness, but from truth trying to make its way out. Jack looked at her, a faint crease forming on his forehead, the beer forgotten in his hand.

Jack: “You sound like my mother. She used to say that too — that joy’s in the small stuff. Then she spent her last years in a tiny apartment wishing life had been bigger.”

Jeeny: “Maybe she was chasing the wrong kind of big.”

Jack: “And what’s the right kind?”

Jeeny: “The kind that doesn’t need an audience.”

Host: The sky above them had turned a deep, patient blue. A few stars blinked awake — quiet witnesses to the kind of conversation that happens only when the world has slowed down enough to listen.

Jack: “I don’t buy it. You talk like happiness is easy. Like it’s right there between salsa bowls and laughter.”

Jeeny: “It’s not easy. It’s fragile. But it’s real. That’s the thing about moments like that — they don’t pretend to last. They’re beautiful because they don’t.”

Host: Jack turned toward the laughter drifting from inside — their friends, faces glowing with easy joy. For a second, something almost tender crossed his expression, but he hid it behind a wry smile.

Jack: “You ever notice how people cling to those moments, though? Like they’re trying to bottle them up. ‘It was beautiful,’ they say — as if beauty’s something you can store.”

Jeeny: “You can’t store it. You just honor it.”

Jack: “And how do you honor a burrito party?”

Jeeny: “By remembering it meant something. By realizing that for a few hours, everyone forgot their noise, their worries. Isn’t that what beauty is? A pause?”

Host: The wind chime hanging from the porch whispered faintly. Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his face half lost in shadow.

Jack: “So you think happiness is just… small moments, strung together like fairy lights?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Not perfect, not eternal — just honest.”

Jack: “That’s not much to build a life on.”

Jeeny: “It’s everything. Because what else do we ever really have, Jack? The rest — money, ambition, success — it all disappears. But that feeling, sitting among people you love, the way the air hums with warmth — that stays inside you.”

Host: Jack didn’t reply immediately. He stared out into the darkening yard, where the last streaks of light faded behind the trees. Somewhere, a child laughed, and the sound carried — fragile, pure.

Jack: “You know, I used to think like that once. Before I started chasing the next thing, and the next. Always thought happiness was just one achievement away. And every time I got there, it felt smaller than I imagined.”

Jeeny: “That’s because happiness isn’t an arrival. It’s an interruption.”

Jack: “Interruption?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Like when life suddenly pauses — like tonight — and you realize you’re here. You’re breathing. You’re surrounded by people who’d notice if you disappeared. That’s the interruption of beauty.”

Host: The air between them stilled. The music had shifted to something slower — faint guitar chords, almost hesitant. The lights flickered, drawing halos around the beer bottles and the forgotten plates.

Jack: “You ever wonder why people like Elgort say things like that in interviews? They could talk about awards, roles, fame — but instead, they talk about something that simple. Maybe they miss it. Maybe it’s nostalgia for when joy was easy.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe they finally realized that fame is just noise — and peace is the song beneath it.”

Jack: “You think peace can exist in a world like this? Everyone’s chasing, comparing, shouting.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe real peace is when you stop running and just sit down to eat with your people.”

Host: Jack chuckled softly — not mocking this time, but tiredly amused.

Jack: “So, happiness is a burrito, huh?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “No, Jack. Happiness is sharing it.”

Host: For the first time that night, Jack smiled — genuinely, quietly, as if something inside him had unclenched. He took a sip of beer, then glanced back toward the house.

Jack: “You think we’ll remember this night?”

Jeeny: “Only if we call it beautiful.”

Host: The laughter inside grew louder again — someone singing off-key, another telling a story too loud. The porch light flickered and steadied, casting a soft amber glow over both of them.

Jack: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How simple moments start feeling sacred only when you look back.”

Jeeny: “That’s because we spend most of our lives looking forward. Beauty lives in hindsight.”

Host: The night wrapped around them, warm despite the chill. The world beyond the backyard faded into soft shadow — only the small circle of light, the scent of cilantro, and the sound of laughter remained.

Jack set down his empty bottle.

Jack: “Maybe simplicity isn’t cheap. Maybe it’s just the one thing we can’t buy.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s earned. Every moment like this — it’s earned by being present.”

Host: A firefly drifted near them, its glow pulsing gently in rhythm with the last notes of the song. Jeeny watched it, smiling softly.

Jeeny: “You see? Even the smallest lights know how to be beautiful in the dark.”

Jack: “Yeah,” — he looked toward the table, where the empty Chipotle wrappers shimmered faintly in the light — “and maybe that’s the point. Maybe beauty’s not in the event. It’s in the ordinary things that end too soon.”

Host: The camera would pull back now — wide shot — two friends sitting on a wooden porch as laughter fades into the night, surrounded by leftovers and stars.

And somewhere, unseen but deeply felt, the truth of Elgort’s words lingers in the air — that beauty isn’t grandeur, it’s gathering. That joy, when shared, sanctifies the ordinary.

That sometimes, a catered burrito and a circle of laughter are the closest we ever get to paradise.