When a man has lost all happiness, he's not alive. Call him a

Host: The night hung heavy over the city, thick with fog and the hum of distant, indifferent traffic. The streetlights bled through the mist like tired stars, their pale glow flickering across wet pavement. Somewhere, a stray dog barked, then silence — the kind of silence that felt older than sound itself.

Inside a narrow alley café, time moved slower. The air carried the scent of black coffee, rain-soaked stone, and forgotten dreams. Jack sat near the window, his reflection warped by streaks of water on the glass. His hands rested on a chipped mug, the warmth of it the only proof he was still there.

Across from him sat Jeeny, her hair still damp, her eyes calm but deep, like the sea before a storm. Between them, written on a napkin in faded blue ink, lay the words that had brought them here tonight:

“When a man has lost all happiness, he’s not alive. Call him a breathing corpse.”
— Sophocles

Host: The words trembled in the air, too raw to be philosophical — a truth spoken not by gods, but by someone who had known despair intimately.

Jack: (quietly) A breathing corpse. That’s harsh — even for Sophocles.

Jeeny: (softly) It’s not harsh. It’s honest.

Jack: (sighs) Maybe. But it’s cruel too. As if he’s saying there’s no dignity in surviving unhappily.

Jeeny: (looking at him) Maybe that’s because surviving isn’t the same as living.

Host: The café’s neon sign buzzed weakly in the window, painting their faces in flashes of red and blue. The rain outside intensified, its rhythm steady, like the beating of a heart that refused to stop, even when it had no reason left to keep going.

Jack: (bitterly) I think that’s a luxury, Jeeny. To talk about “living” as if it’s a choice. Some people wake up because their bodies won’t let them die yet.

Jeeny: (gently) That’s not living, Jack. That’s waiting.

Jack: (coldly) Same thing.

Jeeny: (quietly) No. One holds on to time. The other holds on to hope.

Host: The coffee steam curled up between them like an unfinished thought. Jack’s eyes — grey, storm-like — flickered with something dangerous: weariness masquerading as truth.

Jack: (low) You know what I think? Happiness is a myth. A word we invented to justify surviving long enough to die slowly.

Jeeny: (softly) That’s not cynicism, Jack. That’s grief dressed as philosophy.

Jack: (snorts) You sound like you pity me.

Jeeny: (firmly) I don’t. I mourn for you. There’s a difference.

Host: The air thickened — that kind of silence where every sound feels too loud. The ticking clock on the café wall filled the space, counting seconds like shallow breaths.

Jack: (after a pause) So what do you call someone who can’t feel joy anymore?

Jeeny: (without hesitation) Human.

Jack: (frowning) Then Sophocles was wrong.

Jeeny: (shakes her head) No. He was just speaking from the wound, not the wisdom.

Jack: (leaning forward) Then what’s the difference?

Jeeny: (quietly) Wisdom remembers pain but doesn’t live in it. Wounds forget everything else.

Host: The rain began to slow, falling softer now — like a whisper of mercy. Jack’s reflection in the window looked ghostly, his features blurred by light and shadow.

Jack: (low) You think happiness is still possible for someone like me? After losing everything that gave life meaning?

Jeeny: (softly) Happiness doesn’t return to those who chase it. It returns to those who stop expecting it to look like it did before.

Jack: (grimly) You make it sound like happiness changes clothes.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) It does. Sometimes it comes wearing grief’s old coat.

Host: She reached across the table and brushed her fingertips along the rim of his cup — not touching him, but close enough to bridge the invisible gulf between despair and tenderness.

Jack: (half-whispers) And if it never comes back?

Jeeny: (quietly) Then you build peace instead. Peace isn’t joy, but it’s life.

Host: Her voice carried the softness of rain after thunder — not fragile, but forgiving. Jack’s shoulders dropped slightly, as though some unseen weight had shifted.

Jack: (sighs) You ever think Sophocles saw himself that way? A breathing corpse?

Jeeny: (nods) Probably. Most artists write their epitaphs before they die.

Jack: (softly) Maybe that’s all we’re doing — trying to explain our own decay.

Jeeny: (gently) Or trying to turn decay into something that grows.

Host: Outside, the fog began to lift, the street beyond the window softening into clearer shape. Jack followed her gaze, watching the faint outline of a couple huddled beneath a single umbrella, laughing in the rain.

Jack: (quietly) You see them? They make it look easy.

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) Happiness always looks easy when you’re standing in the dark.

Jack: (softly) And impossible when you’re living there.

Jeeny: (gently) Then step closer to the light, even if you don’t believe in it yet.

Host: His hand trembled slightly as he reached for the mug again, though he didn’t drink. The warmth seeped into his palms, a small reminder that something in the world still carried heat.

Jack: (after a pause) You know, I think I finally get what Sophocles meant.

Jeeny: (curious) Tell me.

Jack: (softly) He wasn’t saying happiness is everything. He was saying numbness is death.

Jeeny: (nods) Exactly. To feel nothing is worse than pain. At least pain proves you’re still alive.

Jack: (quietly) Then maybe I’m not a corpse yet. Just... lost between breaths.

Jeeny: (smiling gently) Then breathe, Jack. Even if it hurts. Especially if it hurts.

Host: The rain stopped completely now, leaving the world slick, gleaming — reborn. The streetlight outside flickered once more, then steadied. For the first time, the reflection in the glass no longer looked like a ghost, but a man beginning to remember himself.

Jack: (after a long silence) Maybe happiness isn’t the opposite of death. Maybe it’s just the courage to keep searching for beauty in a broken world.

Jeeny: (softly) That’s all life ever asks of us — to keep searching.

Jack: (smiles faintly) You’d make Sophocles roll his eyes.

Jeeny: (laughs) Probably. But even he’d have to admit — tragedy isn’t the end. It’s just the moment before the heart remembers how to feel.

Host: The faint hum of the café filled the room again — the low murmur of conversation, the clinking of cups, the sound of a world that, despite everything, still moved forward.

Jack looked at Jeeny — really looked — and something fragile but certain sparked behind his eyes, a quiet defiance against the nothingness.

Jack: (softly) I’m still breathing.

Jeeny: (smiling) Then you’re still alive.

Host: Outside, the last drops of rain slipped from the leaves, falling softly onto the earth — each one a heartbeat returning.

Host: And as the fog lifted fully, the city emerged again in all its imperfect, luminous grace — a reminder that even the breathing corpse, once warmed by compassion, can find the pulse of life again.

Host: For in the ruins of despair, the smallest spark of feeling is enough to prove that the soul still dares to exist.