Today I see beauty everywhere I go, in every face I see, in every

Host: The morning light spilled like liquid gold through the café windows, catching the steam rising from cups of coffee, the dust motes swirling in lazy circles, the quiet music that barely touched the air. The world outside was just waking — the street vendors, the bicycles, the laughter of children still carrying dreams in their eyes.

Jack sat near the window, a newspaper folded but unread, his grey eyes lost somewhere between thought and memory. Jeeny sat across from him, her hands wrapped around a cup, the heat reflecting softly on her face. The light turned her hair into ribbons of black silk, and her gaze carried that quiet kind of hope that refuses to die.

On the table between them was a single quote, scribbled on the back of a receipt:

“Today I see beauty everywhere I go, in every face I see, in every single soul.” – Kevyn Aucoin

Jeeny: “I love that line,” she said, her voice warm, eyes soft. “It’s like a prayer in motion. Imagine seeing beauty everywhere — in every face, in every soul. What a way to live.”

Jack: “Or what a way to lie to yourself,” he muttered, without looking up.

Jeeny: “You don’t believe it’s possible?”

Jack: “No. Not really. The world’s too cruel, Jeeny. Too ugly. People are selfish, angry, lost. You can’t paint over that with words like ‘beauty’ and ‘soul.’”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s exactly why people like Kevyn Aucoin tried to. Because he saw what others refused to — the divine hidden in the ordinary.”

Jack: “Kevyn Aucoin was a makeup artist, Jeeny. His job was literally to make things look beautiful.”

Jeeny: “And in doing that, he learned to see beauty — not just to create it. That’s the difference. He saw it in wrinkles, in scars, in eyes that carried stories. He saw what life had done to people and still called it beautiful.”

Host: The café door opened, letting in a rush of cold air and the faint scent of rain from the street. A homeless man passed by the window, his coat torn, his hands trembling. Jeeny’s gaze followed him; Jack’s didn’t.

Jack: “You think that man out there feels beautiful? Or the world looks at him and sees a soul worth noticing?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But that’s the tragedy — not that he isn’t beautiful, but that we’ve forgotten how to see him that way.”

Jack: “You can’t feed someone by calling them beautiful, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “And you can’t feed the soul by seeing only what’s broken. Both kinds of hunger kill, Jack — one just takes longer.”

Host: The steam from their cups blurred the glass, turning the outside world into a soft impression of colors — a painter’s accident of light and shadow.

Jeeny: “You know what I think?” she said after a moment. “Seeing beauty isn’t about denying pain. It’s about noticing that life keeps shining through it anyway.”

Jack: “That sounds poetic. But naïve.”

Jeeny: “Is it naïve to look for light when there’s darkness? Van Gogh saw beauty in the night sky even when his mind was breaking. Frida Kahlo painted pain in color so it could breathe. They didn’t look away — they just chose to see deeper.”

Jack: “And both of them suffered for it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But their suffering birthed something that keeps the world a little less blind.”

Jack: “So you think it’s a kind of rebellion? To call life beautiful?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The most radical kind.”

Host: The sunlight began to shift, moving slowly across the table until it landed on Jack’s hands. They looked older in the light — worn, steady, marked by time. He turned them over as if seeing them for the first time.

Jack: “You know, I used to see beauty like that once,” he said quietly. “When I was a kid, my mom used to take me to the park after work. She’d point out the clouds, the leaves, the way the light hit the pond. Said the world was full of miracles, if I’d just stop running long enough to look.”

Jeeny smiled. “And did you?”

Jack: “For a while. Then life got louder. Busier. Meaner. I guess I stopped looking.”

Jeeny: “That’s what faith in beauty is — not believing it’s everywhere, but remembering to look again.”

Jack: “And what if what you see is ugly? What if all you find are people who hurt each other, faces that lie, souls that don’t care?”

Jeeny: “Then you keep looking until you find the cracks — because that’s where the light gets in.”

Host: A young couple laughed at the next table, their hands intertwined, their eyes bright with that fragile thing that still dares to call itself love. A waiter spilled coffee but smiled through it; an old woman in the corner read, her lips moving silently as though reciting a poem to herself.

Jeeny watched them all with that quiet awe she carried like a second heartbeat.

Jeeny: “Do you see it now, Jack? The way the light touches everyone? How it doesn’t choose who to bless?”

Jack: “Maybe you just see what you want to.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I see what I’ve learned to. That every face carries a story, every story a soul, every soul some spark of grace.”

Jack: “Grace?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The kindness that lives underneath all the noise. Even in the man outside, even in you.”

Jack: “You think I still have that?”

Jeeny: “Of course. You’re sitting here, trying to understand. That’s where beauty starts — in the effort to see it.”

Host: The rain began again, softly this time — a gentle drumming against the window. The crowd outside opened umbrellas, their colors like a field of moving flowers. The world was wet, glittering, alive.

Jack looked up at the street, then back at Jeeny.

Jack: “You ever think beauty is just… perspective? A trick of the mind?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But isn’t that the best kind of magic? The kind you choose to believe in?”

Jack: “So beauty isn’t in the world — it’s in the eyes?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s in the connection. Between the eyes and the heart. Between the wound and the wonder.”

Jack: “That’s… a hard thing to see.”

Jeeny: “That’s why we practice. Like faith. Like breathing.”

Host: The light dimmed as the rain clouds gathered, and for a moment, the café felt like a small island of warmth in a vast grey ocean. Jack leaned forward, his tone softer now, something fragile in it.

Jack: “Maybe I want to see it again, Jeeny. The beauty. The kind you talk about.”

Jeeny: “Then start small. See it in the faces you pass on your way home. In the old man selling oranges, in the child laughing at puddles. In the way the rain keeps falling even when no one’s watching. Beauty doesn’t hide, Jack — we do.”

Jack: “And if I fail?”

Jeeny: “Then you try again tomorrow. Because every day is a chance to see better.”

Host: The rain slowed, and the sky began to open again. Light returned, hesitant but true, spilling across the tables, catching in the reflections of a thousand tiny things: a spoon, a ring, the tears Jeeny didn’t bother to hide.

Jack smiled, for the first time in a long while — not because he had found beauty, but because he had begun to look.

Jack: “You’re right. Maybe the world hasn’t changed. Maybe I just need new eyes.”

Jeeny: “Then open them. The world’s been waiting.”

Host: Outside, a bird landed on the railing, its wings trembling, its feathers glistening with rain. It stayed for only a moment before lifting into the sunlight again.

And as Jack and Jeeny watched it rise, the café seemed to grow quieter, as though the world itself had taken a breath.

Every face glowed a little brighter, every sound felt a little softer — and for that brief, sacred moment, beauty was everywhere, just as Kevyn Aucoin had promised.