I, not events, have the power to make me happy or unhappy today.

Host: The morning light crept through the half-open blinds of a small apartment, soft and golden, the kind of light that forgives everything it touches. The air smelled faintly of coffee, and the city below murmured its endless lullaby — cars humming, birds fussing in the trees, distant laughter blending into the rhythm of waking life.

The walls were covered with old photographs, unevenly hung — moments trapped mid-laughter, mid-hope, mid-chaos. A record turned slowly in the corner, whispering the scratchy hum of a jazz tune too tired to be sad.

Jack sat by the window, barefoot, wearing a wrinkled shirt and a look that belonged to someone remembering how to breathe. His hands held a chipped coffee cup, and his eyes, grey and thoughtful, reflected the morning as though he wasn’t sure if he wanted to belong to it yet.

Jeeny stood by the table, slicing oranges with quiet precision. The sunlight painted her hair in amber strands, and her face carried the calm of someone who has made peace with the ordinary — or learned to hide her storms beneath it.

On the table, written in neat ink on a torn page from a calendar, lay a quote she had copied out before breakfast:

“I, not events, have the power to make me happy or unhappy today. I can choose which it shall be. Yesterday is dead, tomorrow hasn’t arrived yet. I have just one day, today, and I’m going to be happy in it.”
— Groucho Marx

Host: The words seemed to hover in the sunlight, weightless but stubborn — a kind of cheerful defiance disguised as simplicity.

Jack: (dryly) “I can choose to be happy.” Sounds like something people say right before life punches them in the face.

Jeeny: (smiles softly) Or right after — when they decide to get back up anyway.

Jack: (raises an eyebrow) You actually believe happiness is a choice?

Jeeny: (wipes her hands, sits) I think it’s an act of rebellion.

Jack: (chuckles) Against what?

Jeeny: (quietly) Against everything that tries to own you — fear, memory, regret, tomorrow.

Host: The record crackled softly, the saxophone lingering like smoke in the air. The room was quiet except for the rhythm of their breathing — one weary, one steady.

Jack: (sighs) I don’t know, Jeeny. Some days it doesn’t feel like I’ve got that kind of power. The world happens — bills, news, people leaving — and I just react.

Jeeny: (gently) Then maybe it’s not about controlling what happens, Jack. It’s about refusing to let it write the whole story.

Jack: (grins faintly) Sounds noble. But when life throws punches, all the philosophy in the world won’t make it hurt less.

Jeeny: (quietly) No, but it’ll help you remember you can still stand after.

Host: The light shifted slightly, brighter now, casting long shadows across the table. Dust floated lazily through it — time’s quiet way of reminding them that every moment, even this one, was already fading.

Jack: (staring at the quote) “Yesterday is dead.” He makes it sound so easy. Like memory can just… turn off.

Jeeny: (softly) Memory doesn’t die. It just stops asking for attention when you stop feeding it.

Jack: (frowning) That’s poetic — and impossible.

Jeeny: (smiling) Maybe. But happiness isn’t about amnesia. It’s about perspective.

Jack: (quietly) So you just decide to be happy? Just like that?

Jeeny: (nodding slightly) Not decide. Practice. Every day. Like brushing your teeth or forgiving yourself.

Jack: (leans back, sighs) You make it sound like work.

Jeeny: (grins) It is. The hardest kind — because it starts inside, where no one’s watching.

Host: The city noise outside grew a little louder now — a street vendor shouting, a car horn, a dog barking in rhythm. The world, awake and imperfect.

Jack: (looking out the window) Yesterday’s dead. Tomorrow hasn’t arrived yet. (pauses) It’s funny how he puts it. Like today’s some fragile miracle sitting between two graves.

Jeeny: (quietly) Maybe it is. Most people miss it while mourning one or fearing the other.

Jack: (softly) You ever stop fearing tomorrow?

Jeeny: (shakes her head) Never. I just learned to walk beside it instead of behind it.

Jack: (smirking) You talk like time’s an old friend.

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) Or an old enemy I’ve made peace with.

Host: The wind outside brushed the window, carrying the faint smell of rain — that restless scent of change that never quite keeps its promises.

Jack: (quietly) You know, I used to think happiness was something that happened to you. When things went right, when someone stayed, when the stars aligned.

Jeeny: (softly) And now?

Jack: (after a pause) Now I think it’s something you notice too late — when it’s gone.

Jeeny: (gently) Then maybe today’s the day you notice it early.

Jack: (half-smiles) You think it’s that easy?

Jeeny: (smiles) No. But it’s that possible.

Host: The record changed tracks — a lighter melody now, playful and imperfect, as if mocking the solemnity of the morning.

Jack: (takes a sip of his cold coffee) You know, Marx was a comedian. It’s funny how he said something that sounds so serious.

Jeeny: (grinning) Maybe humor was his courage. Laughing at life before it could laugh at him.

Jack: (quietly) So being happy isn’t naïve — it’s brave.

Jeeny: (nodding) The bravest thing there is.

Host: The sunlight had climbed higher now, flooding the room. The edges of things glowed — the rim of the mug, the curve of Jeeny’s hand, the stillness between them.

Jack: (softly) I keep waiting for happiness to feel… bigger. Like a sign, you know? Some moment that says, “This is it.”

Jeeny: (smiling) Maybe it’s smaller. Maybe it’s this — sunlight, coffee, breath, conversation.

Jack: (chuckles) You make it sound sacred.

Jeeny: (softly) Maybe it is. Maybe the sacred was always ordinary, and we just forgot to notice.

Host: A single beam of light hit the quote on the table, bright enough to make the ink glisten. Jack followed the glow with his eyes, and something shifted in his expression — not joy, not even peace, but the first quiet acceptance that precedes both.

Jack: (quietly) Yesterday’s dead. Tomorrow hasn’t arrived. (pauses) Then maybe all that’s left to do is… choose.

Jeeny: (nods) Exactly. Choose — even if the choice feels small. Even if it only lasts a moment.

Jack: (after a long pause) And if I fail tomorrow?

Jeeny: (smiles gently) Then you’ll wake up, and choose again.

Host: The record stopped spinning. The world paused — no music, no words, just the soft hum of sunlight and breath.

Host: Jack looked out at the city, its chaos and color stretching endlessly before him, and for the first time in months, his shoulders eased.

Jack: (softly) You know, I think I’ll go for a walk. No reason. Just because I can.

Jeeny: (smiling) Then that’s your first act of happiness today.

Jack: (grins faintly) Feels a bit like rebellion.

Jeeny: (quietly) The best kind — against yesterday, and against fear.

Host: He stood, slipped the folded quote into his pocket, and opened the door. The morning air hit him — cool, new, alive.

Host: The sun fell across his back as he stepped out, his laughter carried softly down the hall.

Host: Jeeny watched him go, the smile still lingering on her lips — the kind born not from joy, but from recognition.

Host: And in the quiet that followed, the words of Groucho Marx seemed less like a joke and more like a vow — a promise whispered between the living and the light:

Host: That happiness, fleeting and fierce, begins not with the world’s mercy — but with our own decision to be kind to the day we’ve been given.

Host: The light deepened. The record clicked softly. And time, for a brief, golden moment, stood still — content.