I was a happy kid up until I hit the teen years.

Host:
The streetlights outside the diner buzzed softly, their glow spilling onto the slick pavement like melted gold. The rain had stopped an hour ago, but the world still smelled of it — wet asphalt, coffee steam, and memory. Inside, the diner was nearly empty, except for the hum of the old neon sign and the sound of a jukebox spinning some forgotten rock ballad that bled through the silence like an old scar.

At a corner booth, Jack sat slouched against the red vinyl, a cup of coffee cooling between his hands. His eyes were distant — not sad, not lost, just far. Jeeny sat across from him, her elbows resting lightly on the table, her hair a curtain of dark silk against the chrome glow.

The clock on the wall ticked without urgency. Somewhere in the back, a waitress hummed softly, off-key, like someone who had learned long ago to find comfort in repetition.

Jeeny:
“You look like a man remembering something you’re trying not to,” she said gently.

Jack:
He smiled faintly, a small crack of truth in his otherwise composed face. “Maybe I am.”

Jeeny:
“Rick Springfield once said, ‘I was a happy kid up until I hit the teen years.’ You kind of remind me of that tonight.”

Jack:
He let out a low laugh — not bitter, just weary. “Yeah. That sounds about right. Happiness has an expiration date, doesn’t it?”

Jeeny:
“I don’t think happiness expires,” she said softly. “I think it just changes flavor.”

Host:
Her words hung there, suspended between them, fragile as cigarette smoke. Jack took a sip of his coffee, wincing slightly at its bitterness — the taste of something long gone cold.

Jack:
“You know,” he said after a pause, “when I was a kid, everything made sense. Not logically — emotionally. You fall, you cry. You win a game, you laugh. It was all clean. Then the teen years hit, and suddenly you’re… aware. Of everything. Yourself. The world. The eyes watching you. And you start building walls faster than you can find windows.”

Jeeny:
“I remember that,” she whispered. “That first time you feel embarrassed just for existing. Like joy suddenly became suspicious.”

Jack:
He nodded. “Exactly. You start measuring your laughter, rationing it out, afraid it might sound too naive. That’s when happiness starts costing something.”

Host:
The rain started again, faint and steady. It tapped against the window, soft as regret. The neon light flickered, flashing the same word — Open — as if reminding them that even at 2 a.m., something somewhere still was.

Jeeny:
“You talk about your childhood like it was a song that ran out halfway through.”

Jack:
He smiled. “It kind of was. My father used to play old records in the kitchen. Beatles, Elvis, a little Fleetwood Mac when he was feeling soft. I used to dance — just spin around like the world couldn’t catch me. And then one day, I stopped.”

Jeeny:
“Why?”

Jack:
He shrugged. “Someone told me it looked stupid.”

Host:
The silence that followed was heavy, but not cruel. Jeeny’s eyes glistened in the low light, not with pity — but recognition.

Jeeny:
“That’s the moment, isn’t it? The one we all remember. The first time the world tells us how to stop being ourselves.”

Jack:
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s when I stopped being a happy kid. And started being… a version.”

Host:
The jukebox shifted songs — a scratchy guitar riff filled the diner, something old, rebellious, full of longing. The kind of music you only understand after losing something pure.

Jeeny:
“I used to think the teen years were supposed to be about rebellion,” she said. “But they’re not. They’re about defense. You’re not rebelling against anything. You’re just trying not to disappear.”

Jack:
“That’s good,” he said, smiling softly. “You should write that down.”

Jeeny:
“I did,” she replied. “In the margins of an old diary. Right next to the page where I stopped writing about stars and started writing about people.”

Host:
Her voice broke slightly on that last word — people — as if the act of becoming one still stung.

Jack:
“You know what’s strange?” he said. “I used to think growing up meant learning more. But now I think it means unlearning — peeling away the things that kept us pretending. Maybe we’re all just trying to remember what we felt before we started thinking too much.”

Jeeny:
“Maybe that’s what Rick meant,” she said. “He wasn’t mourning happiness. He was mourning simplicity.”

Jack:
He nodded. “The kind of joy that didn’t need permission.”

Jeeny:
“Exactly.”

Host:
She reached across the table, her fingers brushing the edge of his hand — a small, human gesture that felt like memory made flesh. The sound of the rain deepened, like applause from the sky for their shared truth.

Jeeny:
“Do you think we ever get that back?”

Jack:
“What — happiness?”

Jeeny:
“No,” she said. “Innocence.”

Jack:
He thought for a moment. “Maybe not in the same way. But maybe we get something better. Awareness. Compassion. The kind that comes from falling and still choosing to stand.”

Jeeny:
“So happiness evolves?”

Jack:
“Yeah,” he said. “It grows quieter. But it gets truer.”

Host:
For a while, they said nothing. The neon light flickered again, the rain softened to a mist, and the music from the jukebox faded into a tender, almost imperceptible hum.

Jeeny:
“You ever notice how songs from your childhood sound different now?”

Jack:
“Yeah. They used to sound like promises. Now they sound like ghosts.”

Jeeny:
“Beautiful ghosts, though.”

Jack:
“Yeah,” he said. “The kind that still know your name.”

Host:
A single car passed by outside, its headlights cutting briefly through the window. It lit their faces — two souls caught halfway between the past and the peace of understanding it.

Jack raised his cup again, and for the first time that night, he smiled without effort.

Host:
And in that dim corner of a half-forgotten diner, Rick Springfield’s words seemed to hum beneath the surface of their silence:

“I was a happy kid up until I hit the teen years.”

Because maybe that’s when the light doesn’t vanish — it just learns to hide.
Maybe happiness isn’t something we lose,
but something we learn to protect.

And as the rain gave way to stillness, Jack and Jeeny sat quietly,
their reflections in the window overlapping — two grown hearts carrying
the faint, stubborn pulse of their younger selves.

Host:
And if you listened closely, beneath the hum of the neon and the whisper of rain,
you could almost hear it —
the laughter of two happy kids,
still waiting inside them,
still learning how to begin again.