If I can wake up everyday before I die and know that I don't have

Host: The morning light spilled through the café window, thick and golden, catching on dust particles that danced lazily in the air like tiny ghosts of yesterday’s rush. The chairs were still upturned on tables, the smell of coffee grounds and burnt toast lingered in the silence. Outside, the city stirred, but inside — it was that rare hour of peace between work and waking.

Jack sat at the counter, his hands wrapped around a chipped mug, the steam curling into his grey eyes like a memory. Jeeny stood behind the counter, tying her apron, her black hair loose, her smile soft and tired, the kind of smile born not of joy but of endurance.

A radio in the corner crackled — static, then a voice — then, Kelly Clarkson, laughing, saying:

“If I can wake up every day before I die and know that I don’t have to serve anyone food or drinks, I will be happy!”

Jack: “You hear that, Jeeny? That’s freedom right there — not having to serve anyone.”
Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve memorized it.”
Jack: “Because it’s the truest thing I’ve ever heard said in a diner.”
Jeeny: “Funny. I thought service was supposed to be noble.”
Jack: “It’s not noble. It’s survival. Nobility’s a word rich people use to make exhaustion look poetic.”

Host: The espresso machine hissed, a sharp sound of protest, like the world disagreeing. Jeeny smiled faintly, pouring milk, her movements practiced, almost ritualistic — the way one might handle something both fragile and endless.

Jeeny: “Maybe she didn’t mean serving in the literal sense, Jack. Maybe she meant being free from expectations — not being told who you have to please.”
Jack: “Same thing. Serving coffee or serving people’s egos — both take from you.”
Jeeny: “But don’t you think there’s something beautiful in it too? The connection, the routine, the way a small act can make someone’s day better?”
Jack: “Beautiful? You ever watched someone snap their fingers at you because their toast was cold?”
Jeeny: “Maybe they’re not snapping at you, Jack. Maybe they’re just starving for control in a world where they have none.”
Jack: “And we’re supposed to be the therapy?”
Jeeny: “Maybe kindness is the only therapy most people can afford.”

Host: The radio shifted, a new song playing softly, the kind that fills silence without intruding on it. Jack looked up, his face softened by a reluctant kind of understanding, the steam rising between them like forgiveness.

Jack: “You ever wonder why people equate serving with weakness?”
Jeeny: “Because they’ve never done it. They’ve never had to smile through humiliation, never had to pretend the customer’s always right when they know they’re wrong.”
Jack: “So, we wear the uniform, pour their drinks, and call it dignity.”
Jeeny: “No. We call it grace. The kind that doesn’t need applause.”
Jack: “Grace doesn’t pay rent.”
Jeeny: “Neither does bitterness.”

Host: A bus rumbled past outside, rattling the windowpanes. The light shifted — from gold to white, from gentle to honest. Jeeny leaned on the counter, her hands trembling slightly, tiredness creeping into her voice.

Jeeny: “When I was seventeen, I worked at a diner like this. Old stools, broken jukebox, regulars who tipped with nickels. I hated it then, but now — I miss it. Not the work, but the simplicity. You didn’t have to be anything more than what you were in that moment.”
Jack: “You mean invisible.”
Jeeny: “No. Present. There’s a difference.”
Jack: “You think Kelly Clarkson was talking about presence when she said she’d be happy not to serve anyone again?”
Jeeny: “No, she was talking about liberation. But freedom’s complicated. You can quit the job and still spend your life serving someone — your boss, your bills, your past.”
Jack: “Or yourself.”
Jeeny: “Especially yourself.”

Host: Jack laughed softly, the sound warm, but a little cracked around the edges — the way laughter sounds when it remembers regret. He took a sip of his coffee, grimaced, but drank it anyway.

Jack: “I used to be a waiter. Four years in a steakhouse. I swore I’d never serve anyone again. But here I am, still serving. Clients, deadlines, expectations — all dressed up in nicer clothes.”
Jeeny: “So, maybe it’s not the tray that’s the problem. Maybe it’s the idea that service makes us smaller.”
Jack: “It does.”
Jeeny: “No. It humbles us. And humility isn’t smallness. It’s strength disguised as quiet.”
Jack: “You talk like serving is spiritual.”
Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe every act of service — even the thankless ones — keep the world turning a little softer.”

Host: The doorbell jingled, a customer stepped in, looked around, then left. Jack and Jeeny didn’t notice. They were too far inside their own conversation, as if the world outside had been paused just for them.

Jack: “So, what would freedom look like to you?”
Jeeny: “Waking up without needing to prove I’m useful.”
Jack: “That’s what Kelly meant, then. No serving, no proving.”
Jeeny: “Yes — but also no pretending. You ever think about how many smiles we’ve faked?”
Jack: “Enough to qualify for sainthood.”
Jeeny: “Or burnout.”
Jack: “Same thing.”

Host: A ray of light broke through the window, catching on the chrome coffee pot, splitting it into tiny shards of brightness. For a moment, the whole café looked like it was made of light and memory, a place suspended between work and wanting.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what happiness is, Jack — the absence of servitude.”
Jack: “Or maybe it’s the presence of choice.”
Jeeny: “Choice?”
Jack: “Yeah. To serve or not. To wake up and decide — this time, I pour my own cup.”
Jeeny: “And if someone asks you for a refill?”
Jack: “Depends. Are they kind?”
Jeeny: “Does it matter?”
Jack: “Always.”

Host: The clock above the counter ticked, slow, steady, certain. The morning had fully arrived now, and with it, the day’s demands. But for a moment longer, the two of them just stood there, caught between freedom and duty, coffee and silence.

Jeeny: “You know, I think Kelly Clarkson’s line isn’t about bitterness. It’s about peace. The peace that comes from knowing you don’t owe anyone your time.”
Jack: “Or your smile.”
Jeeny: “Or your submission.”
Jack: “And maybe that’s what happiness is — not a new life, just one where you stop performing the old one.”
Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The door opened, and a small group of customers entered, chatting, smiling, the morning rush returning like a wave of necessity. Jeeny sighed, tied her apron tighter, and Jack — ever the skeptic — smirked but stood up to help anyway.

Jeeny: “So much for not serving anyone today.”
Jack: “Well, maybe serving’s not the problem. Maybe forgetting why we do it is.”
Jeeny: “Why do you do it, then?”
Jack: “To feel human. To connect. To not disappear.”
Jeeny: “Then that’s not serving, Jack. That’s sharing.”

Host: The customers laughed, the cups clinked, the air filled with the hum of ordinary life. Jeeny poured, Jack carried, and somewhere in between — freedom didn’t feel like escape anymore.

Because maybe Kelly Clarkson was right —
the dream isn’t to never serve again,
but to one day wake up, untethered,
and realize you’re finally serving by choice,
not by need.

And that, too,
is happiness —
the kind that wears an apron,
but belongs to no one.