Laughter is not at all a bad beginning for a friendship, and it

Host: The city glowed under a late autumn dusk, that hour when the streets are caught between gold and shadow, and everything feels like a secret you’re about to forget. The rain had stopped, but the pavement still shimmered with its memory—mirroring the passing lights of trams, pubs, and hurried strangers.

Inside an old London pub, time seemed to pause. Warm light spilled from the lamps, caught in the steam of freshly poured ale. The smell of roasted nuts and wood smoke hung in the air. At a corner table, near a slightly cracked window, Jack sat with a half-smile, his coat open, his collar loosened.

Across from him, Jeeny laughed—real, unguarded, the kind of laughter that makes the whole room tilt toward it.

Jeeny: “You should have seen your face, Jack. You looked like a man trying to outstare the Queen herself.”

Jack: “That’s because I was. She blinked first.”

Jeeny: “Oh, please.” (still laughing) “You blinked before she even looked up.”

Jack: “Well, I didn’t want to appear too competitive.”

Jeeny: “You didn’t appear competitive—you appeared terrified.”

Host: Their laughter filled the corner of the room, easy and alive. The rain outside began again, faintly, like an echo of their voices against the glass. For a long moment, there was no tension, no philosophy, no argument—just two people letting the world soften around them.

Then, as laughter always does, it began to fade.

Jack: (quietly) “You know, Oscar Wilde once said, ‘Laughter is not at all a bad beginning for a friendship, and it is far the best ending for one.’”

Jeeny: “Ah, Wilde. Always clever enough to make tragedy sound like wit.”

Jack: “He was right, though. Laughter’s a good start—and a good goodbye.”

Jeeny: “You talk like someone planning a goodbye.”

Jack: “Aren’t we always? Every conversation’s just a long preparation for silence.”

Jeeny: “That’s bleak.”

Jack: “That’s realistic.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s cowardly—to expect endings before beginnings even breathe.”

Host: The light flickered over their table, casting long shadows that trembled slightly, as if the room itself was holding its breath. Jack’s face, so sharp and still moments ago, softened under the glow.

Jeeny: “You always look for exits, Jack. Even in joy. Can’t you ever just be inside the moment without calculating the cost of leaving it?”

Jack: “You mistake calculation for clarity. I’ve learned that laughter doesn’t protect you—it only delays the pain.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not meant to protect you. Maybe it’s meant to save you, even for a second.”

Jack: “Save me from what?”

Jeeny: “From yourself.”

Host: The pub buzzed faintly with other conversations, other laughter—a low tide of humanity in motion. Outside, a group of friends stumbled down the street, their voices bright against the dark. Inside, the space between Jack and Jeeny grew both smaller and heavier.

Jack: “You know, Wilde was being honest. Laughter is how we begin because it’s easy. You don’t need courage to laugh. But when a friendship ends with it—that’s grace. That’s two people saying, ‘I forgive you,’ without needing the words.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. That’s two people pretending it doesn’t hurt. There’s nothing graceful about that. Laughter at the end—it’s the sound of two hearts disguising their breaking.”

Jack: “You make everything sound like an opera.”

Jeeny: “And you make everything sound like an obituary.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s because friendship dies the moment truth enters.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe that’s when it’s born.”

Host: A draft blew through the cracked window, fluttering the corner of a napkin between them. The candle flame shuddered, then steadied. In that trembling, Jack’s expression wavered—somewhere between defense and surrender.

Jeeny: “Tell me, Jack. Have you ever laughed with someone you loved?”

Jack: “Once.”

Jeeny: “And?”

Jack: “It ended exactly the way Wilde said it would.”

Jeeny: “You laughed?”

Jack: “We did. Right before she left.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that laughter was her way of leaving you something beautiful.”

Jack: “Or her way of avoiding what was ugly.”

Jeeny: “You always choose the wound over the warmth, don’t you?”

Jack: “Because the wound’s real. Warmth fades. Like this—” (he gestures at the candle) “—bright for a moment, then gone.”

Jeeny: “But the warmth is the point, Jack. You don’t remember the darkness—you remember the light.”

Host: The rain intensified, running down the window in tiny rivers, blurring the streetlights beyond. The room’s chatter softened, as though their corner had slipped into another world entirely—one made only of memory and reflection.

Jack: “Do you really believe laughter can save a friendship?”

Jeeny: “Not save. But it can heal. You can’t hate someone you’ve truly laughed with. Not deeply.”

Jack: “Then why do people stop laughing?”

Jeeny: “Because they stop listening. Because pride speaks louder than joy.”

Jack: “So laughter is forgiveness in disguise?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. Sometimes it’s love’s last echo.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes glistened with the faint sheen of memory. She looked down, tracing her finger along the rim of her glass, the faint sound delicate as breath. Jack’s hand, once still, now tapped lightly against the table—a small, anxious rhythm.

Jack: “You know, when Wilde said that, maybe he was talking about himself. He laughed his way through tragedy—through exile, humiliation, heartbreak. Maybe laughter wasn’t his beginning or his ending. Maybe it was his armor.”

Jeeny: “Then it’s both. A shield and a song. He laughed to survive. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t real.”

Jack: “You think laughter’s brave?”

Jeeny: “Braver than silence.”

Jack: “And yet silence is what always wins.”

Jeeny: “No. Silence is what’s left after laughter’s done its job.”

Host: The clock behind the bar ticked softly. The pub began to empty, the bartender wiping glasses with the rhythm of ritual. The world outside shimmered with reflections—wet, bright, infinite.

Jack: “Maybe Wilde was right, but not for the reason he thought. Maybe laughter’s the best ending because it’s the only ending that leaves no bitterness. You walk away lighter. You remember the warmth, not the words.”

Jeeny: “And maybe it’s the best beginning because it lets strangers become human. You can’t distrust someone who’s made you laugh.”

Jack: “So that’s it then—laughter as bridge and farewell.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The moment before and the moment after.”

Jack: “Then what are we, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “Maybe we’re the pause between the two.”

Host: Jack’s laugh broke the silence—a quiet, genuine sound that seemed to surprise even him. Jeeny smiled, her eyes soft, almost tender. The rain had slowed, now falling like faint applause outside the window.

Jack: “You know, for once, I think I’d be fine if our friendship ended with laughter.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s already begun.”

Host: The lamplight dimmed as they both laughed—together this time, not sharply, but softly, like two souls finally sharing the same breath.

Outside, the city glistened—old stones, new light, and laughter lingering like perfume on the air.

In that moment, Wilde’s words didn’t sound clever anymore. They sounded true.

For friendship, like laughter, doesn’t last forever—
but it always ends better when it leaves an echo.