If I could go back and tell 13-year-old self that I would be on

Host: The fairground lights shimmered against the wet Blackpool boardwalk, spilling red, yellow, and green across puddles that reflected the laughter of strangers and the melancholy of the sea. The Ferris wheel turned slow and silver against the dusk, its cabins glowing like small promises circling in the dark.

The air smelled of salt and sugar — chips frying, candy floss, and the faint ozone hum of electric rides warming up for the night. Beyond the arcade sounds and the distant gulls, a faint song played from a nearby stall — nostalgic, old, sweetly ironic.

Jack leaned against the rusting rail by the ghost train, his hands buried in his coat pockets. His eyes, sharp but softened by the glow, followed the looping tracks that disappeared into the dark tunnel painted with skeletons and stars.

Jeeny appeared from the crowd with two paper cups of coffee, her hair damp, her eyes bright with the childish mischief that only fairgrounds seem to summon.

From a nearby loudspeaker, an interviewer’s voice — casual, joyful — echoed faintly through the night:
"If I could go back and tell my 13-year-old self that I would be on screen with Lisa Kudrow, spending my birthday on a ghost train in Blackpool with her, I would have been beside myself." — Mae Martin

Jeeny smiled as the words lingered in the cool air.

Jeeny: “God, I love that quote.”

Jack: “It’s adorable. You can practically see the kid inside her losing their mind.”

Jeeny: “It’s more than adorable, Jack. It’s gratitude — the kind that sneaks up on you when life accidentally becomes what you dreamed of.”

Jack: “Gratitude, huh? Or disbelief?”

Jeeny: “Maybe both. But I think that’s the point. The older you get, the harder it is to surprise yourself. Then something wild happens — and suddenly you remember you were thirteen once.”

Host: A gust of wind rolled through the boardwalk, tugging at her hair and lifting the smell of sea and sugar. The ghost train lights flickered to life — cartoon ghouls flashing red eyes, a mechanical laugh echoing from within.

Jack: “You think people ever really grow out of who they were at thirteen?”

Jeeny: “No. I think we just learn to disguise it better.”

Jack: “That explains adults screaming inside haunted houses.”

Jeeny: “Or buying houses they don’t need. Same fear, different ghosts.”

Host: She laughed — a sound bright enough to cut through the carnival noise. Jack’s smile came slow, reluctant, as though he didn’t want to admit he’d missed that sound.

Jeeny: “You ever think about your thirteen-year-old self?”

Jack: “Not if I can help it.”

Jeeny: “Come on. Everyone has that one memory — the one you’d show your younger self just to say, ‘See? You made it.’”

Jack: “Yeah, but I’d also have to explain the rent, the anxiety, the politics, the heartbreak, the world basically catching fire every other week. Not sure he’d be impressed.”

Jeeny: “He’d still be proud you survived.”

Jack: “Survival’s not exactly cinematic.”

Jeeny: “No. But it’s human. And that’s better.”

Host: A ride bell chimed. The wind carried laughter, high and reckless, from a nearby rollercoaster. The sea murmured just beyond the boardwalk, as if the whole coast was breathing with them.

Jack: “You know what I like about Mae Martin’s quote?”

Jeeny: “Tell me.”

Jack: “It’s not about success. It’s about disbelief. That kind of childlike awe that says, ‘Wait, this is my life?’ It’s not ego. It’s wonder rediscovered.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Wonder that doesn’t care about status. Just the sheer ridiculous joy of being where you never thought you’d be.”

Jack: “Like standing in Blackpool at midnight, drinking bad coffee next to a haunted house.”

Jeeny: “See? Perfect.”

Jack: “You call this perfect?”

Jeeny: “You don’t see it yet. But one day, you’ll look back and think, ‘Damn, that was good.’ Because the best moments never feel big when they happen. They only grow in hindsight.”

Host: The ghost train doors opened with a clank. The carriage, painted in chipped black and glitter, rattled forward empty, waiting. Jeeny looked at it, then at Jack.

Jeeny: “Come on. Ride with me.”

Jack: “You’re joking.”

Jeeny: “Nope. You’re due for a dose of unplanned joy.”

Jack: “It’s my nightmare.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why it’ll be fun.”

Host: Before he could protest, she grabbed his sleeve and pulled him toward the ride. The attendant — a teenager with bored eyes and too much eyeliner — waved them on. They climbed into the small metal cart, the seats sticky from rain, the air full of that electric smell of rust and anticipation.

Jack sighed, pulling the safety bar down.

Jack: “If we die in there, I’m haunting you first.”

Jeeny: “Good. You’ll finally learn commitment.”

Host: The ride lurched forward with a groan, plunging them into darkness. The world became flashes of neon skeletons, cheap screams, and artificial fog. Jeeny laughed — loud, unrestrained — the kind of laugh you don’t plan, the kind that rewrites your pulse.

Jack laughed too, though his was half from fear, half from freedom.

When they emerged, the night air hit them like applause — cold, fresh, alive.

Jeeny: (breathing hard) “See? You lived.”

Jack: “Barely. I think a rubber bat touched me.”

Jeeny: “You’re welcome for the memory.”

Jack: “You’re assuming I’ll remember it fondly.”

Jeeny: “Trust me. In twenty years, you’ll be telling your thirteen-year-old self that you rode a ghost train with someone who made you laugh again.”

Jack: “And what’ll he say?”

Jeeny: “He’ll probably be beside himself.”

Host: The words echoed — playful, poetic, inevitable. They stood there in the cold, surrounded by the glow of the fairground — two grown children in borrowed time.

The lights reflected in Jeeny’s eyes, the same way the sea caught the moon — fleeting, imperfect, infinite.

Jack: “You know, maybe that’s what growing up really is. Not losing the child — just learning how to give them better stories.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The past doesn’t fade, Jack. It waits. For laughter, for closure, for moments like this.”

Host: The wind off the ocean picked up again, carrying the smell of salt and sugar, of endings disguised as beginnings. The fairground lights blinked, reflected in every puddle like scattered constellations.

Jack turned to her, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

Jack: “Alright, Jeeny. What next?”

Jeeny: “Next? We walk the pier. Eat something fried. Talk about nothing until the night’s too tired to listen.”

Jack: “No plans?”

Jeeny: “The best ones never are.”

Host: And so they walked — through the mist and the laughter, past rides that would one day close and lights that would one day fade — two souls tracing the quiet miracle of being alive at the same time, in the same place, against all odds.

Because somewhere deep down, both of them knew what Mae Martin had discovered:

That joy, when it finally finds you,
always feels like a message from your younger self —
a whisper that says, Look at us now. We made it.

And if you listen closely,
you can almost hear that younger voice laughing,
beside itself,
in wonder.