Someone told me the smile on my face gets bigger when I play the

Host:
The room was half-lit, bathed in the gentle amber glow of a lamp that hummed faintly like an old friend. Dust floated through the air — slow, deliberate, like memory. In the corner sat a guitar, its wood worn smooth from years of touch, the strings reflecting threads of gold from the light.

Outside, the city was quiet. The sound of distant traffic drifted up through the open window, mingling with the faint smell of rain and the promise of a night that still had stories left to tell.

Jack sat in the chair by the window, his sleeves rolled up, his grey eyes soft with nostalgia. A cigarette burned idly between his fingers, forgotten. On the couch, Jeeny leaned back, her brown eyes fixed on him with quiet fondness, a gentle smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

He plucked a few lazy chords, the notes floating up like sighs. She listened. The sound filled the silence like water finding its shape.

Then, softly — almost shyly — she spoke, quoting with a warmth that seemed to hum through the air itself:

"Someone told me the smile on my face gets bigger when I play the guitar." — Niall Horan

Jeeny:
(smiling)
I think that’s one of the simplest, most beautiful things I’ve ever heard.

Jack:
(looking up, grinning faintly)
Simple, yeah. But simple things are the hardest to earn.

Jeeny:
You mean joy?

Jack:
Exactly. Real joy. The kind that doesn’t need applause, or meaning — just sound.

Jeeny:
(softly)
It’s honest. You can’t fake that kind of happiness.

Jack:
You can fake a smile. You can fake success. But you can’t fake the way your body reacts to something that frees it.

Jeeny:
That’s what music is, isn’t it? Freedom that fits inside a moment.

Jack:
(nods)
Or inside six strings.

Host:
The guitar rested on his lap, his fingers tracing the fretboard like memory. A low note vibrated, deep and slow, and the room seemed to listen with them.

Jeeny:
You ever notice how people light up when they talk about what they love?

Jack:
Yeah. It’s like their soul borrows light from the thing itself.

Jeeny:
(smiling)
Exactly. That’s what he’s describing — not just smiling, but glowing.

Jack:
And the guitar becomes the mirror. It shows you who you really are when you stop performing for the world.

Jeeny:
(pausing)
That’s why I think everyone needs something like that — something that makes their soul visible.

Jack:
Something that tunes you back to yourself.

Jeeny:
(smiling faintly)
Yes. That’s the right word — tune. Life detunes us constantly. Work, noise, fear. You need something to tune you back to your natural pitch.

Jack:
You sound like a poet with perfect pitch.

Jeeny:
(laughing)
No, just someone who listens.

Host:
The rain started, gentle but insistent — a soft percussion to their unspoken rhythm. The sound of drops tapping the windowsill mixed perfectly with the low hum of strings.

Jack:
You know, I used to play a little. Nothing serious — just enough to get through lonely nights.

Jeeny:
Why’d you stop?

Jack:
(pausing)
Life got louder. The silence between chords started feeling like guilt instead of peace.

Jeeny:
(softly)
Then you were listening to the wrong part of the song.

Jack:
(chuckling quietly)
Maybe. Or maybe I forgot that music isn’t about perfection. It’s about permission.

Jeeny:
Permission for what?

Jack:
To feel again. Without editing it.

Jeeny:
(nods)
Yes. That’s what a real smile is — unedited emotion.

Jack:
You think that’s what Horan meant?

Jeeny:
I do. He’s not talking about performing. He’s talking about returning — to the part of himself that never needed an audience.

Jack:
Yeah. The kid version of you that never played to impress, only to belong.

Jeeny:
(smiling)
To belong to the sound.

Host:
The rain grew steadier, filling the air with rhythm — a duet for the guitar’s quiet hum. Jack’s fingers moved instinctively, finding the melody again, as though the rain itself was teaching him how to play.

Jeeny:
It’s funny, isn’t it? How the body remembers joy even when the mind forgets.

Jack:
That’s what music does — it wakes up what memory tried to bury.

Jeeny:
(smiling softly)
Maybe that’s why the smile gets bigger. It’s the body’s way of saying, thank you for remembering me.

Jack:
(pauses, looking at her)
That’s beautiful, Jeeny.

Jeeny:
It’s true. Every chord is a reunion.

Jack:
And every song’s a homecoming.

Jeeny:
Exactly. And when you find that — when your joy becomes visible — it’s contagious.

Jack:
You mean people start to glow with you.

Jeeny:
Yes. It’s what artists forget sometimes. The point isn’t to impress the audience — it’s to awaken them.

Jack:
And you can’t awaken anyone unless you’ve awakened yourself first.

Jeeny:
Precisely.

Host:
Jack strummed a brighter chord — warm, clear, almost smiling in sound. The music drifted through the room like light bending around silence. For a moment, the world outside disappeared — there was only presence, only peace.

Jack:
You know, there’s something humbling about it — how sound can heal what words can’t.

Jeeny:
Because words explain. Music forgives.

Jack:
And forgiveness always makes you lighter.

Jeeny:
That’s why he smiles bigger — he’s lighter. He’s not carrying himself; he’s carried by the song.

Jack:
That’s the purest kind of joy — when you stop being the source and become the vessel.

Jeeny:
(softly)
And in that surrender, you finally feel free.

Jack:
(smiling faintly)
You make silence sound like symphony.

Jeeny:
Only because silence is where the music begins.

Host:
A single light flickered, and for a brief second, the guitar’s shadow stretched tall across the wall — the silhouette of creation itself. The moment was small, but infinite.

Jeeny:
You know what I think?

Jack:
What?

Jeeny:
That the size of your smile measures the size of your truth.

Jack:
(smirking)
So, the bigger the smile, the more honest the soul?

Jeeny:
Exactly. That’s why his smile gets bigger when he plays — because for once, he’s not pretending.

Jack:
He’s home.

Jeeny:
Yes. Home — not in a place, but in a sound.

Jack:
And that’s the kind of home you never lose.

Host:
The rain softened, the lamp hummed, and the strings settled into silence. But it wasn’t emptiness — it was completion. The kind of quiet that feels like a held breath between two notes that understand each other.

Host:
And as the night wrapped itself around the room, Niall Horan’s words lingered, their meaning clear in the hush between them:

That joy is the truest reflection of self —
not performance, but presence.

That the smile that grows with music
isn’t vanity — it’s recognition.
A reunion between heart and sound,
between body and memory.

That every chord is a confession,
every note a small act of returning —
to simplicity, to play, to the part of you
that remembers what happiness feels like.

And that maybe,
the real miracle isn’t playing the guitar at all —
but finding something that makes your soul
smile back.

The lamp dimmed.
The rain faded.

And as Jack set the guitar down
and Jeeny leaned into the quiet,
the air — alive with afterglow —
felt like the echo of a smile
you couldn’t quite see,
but could feel.