When I was little I thought, isn't it nice that everybody

Host: The evening sky shimmered in a soft crimson hue, as distant fireworks bloomed above the city skyline. The air was thick with the scent of barbecue smoke, laughter, and faint echoes of patriot songs rolling from nearby streets. It was the Fourth of July, and beneath the festive glow, a small rooftop bar pulsed gently with the rhythm of celebration and memory.

Jack sat near the edge of the roof, his sleeves rolled up, his hands wrapped around a sweating glass of whiskey. The sparks reflected in his grey eyes, making them look like burning metal. Jeeny leaned against the railing, her hair swaying softly in the humid night breeze, a faint smile curving on her lips as she watched the explosions of color scatter across the dark sky.

The city cheered, but their table was silent — until she spoke.

Jeeny: “You know, when I was little, I used to think everyone was celebrating my birthday on this day.”
She laughed softly, her voice light yet filled with tender nostalgia. “Like Gloria Stuart once said… ‘When I was little I thought, isn’t it nice that everybody celebrates on my birthday? Because it’s July 4th.’ It’s such a pure thought, isn’t it?”

Jack: “Pure,” he said, his tone dry, “or delusional.”
He took a slow sip of his drink, the ice clinking against the glass. “It’s the kind of innocent lie we tell ourselves before we learn how the world really works.”

Host: A spark flashed across Jeeny’s eyes, not from the fireworks but from something deeper — defiance, maybe, or hurt. The sky burst again, painting her face in shifting colors of red, white, and blue.

Jeeny: “Why do you always strip away the beauty from things, Jack? It’s not a lie — it’s the way a child sees the world. Through wonder. Through connection.”

Jack: “Through illusion,” he corrected, leaning forward. “You grow up thinking the world revolves around you — that your birthday is a holiday, that love is eternal, that dreams come true if you just wish hard enough. Then one day, you realize everyone’s too busy celebrating their own meaning to notice yours.”

Jeeny: “So what?” she said sharply. “Should we stop celebrating because meaning is shared? Maybe that’s the point — that it’s not about being noticed, but about being part of something bigger.”

Host: A breeze brushed across the roof, fluttering the small flags taped to the walls. Below, a crowd roared as another burst of light fractured the sky into gold and violet.

Jeeny: “Children see the world as kind. That everyone’s laughter is for them. That the world’s good. And then we grow up, and men like you call that foolish.”

Jack: “Because it is foolish,” he shot back, his jaw tightening. “The world’s built on self-interest, Jeeny. People don’t cheer for you — they cheer for themselves. For freedom, for identity, for survival. No one’s celebrating you; they’re celebrating the idea of themselves.”

Jeeny: “You mean they’re celebrating what makes them human,” she countered. “And isn’t that still beautiful? That every spark, every song, every face looking up at the sky tonight — they all believe in something? That’s not selfish, Jack. That’s hope.”

Host: The silence that followed trembled between them, punctuated by the distant booms of fireworks. The light flickered across Jack’s face, tracing the faint lines beneath his eyes, the marks of someone who’d seen too much and trusted too little.

Jack: “Hope is just the polite word for denial,” he murmured. “You can dress it up in light and music, but underneath, it’s people pretending they’re free while chained to the same fears and debts as yesterday.”

Jeeny: “And yet they keep pretending,” she said, stepping closer. “And maybe that’s courage — to keep pretending until it becomes real.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying faint strains of the national anthem from the streets below. Jack looked away, his eyes narrowing at the horizon where the last light of sunset bled into the rising smoke of fireworks.

Jack: “You sound like a poet who’s never seen a war.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like a soldier who’s forgotten why he fought.”

Host: Her words hung in the air — not sharp, but heavy, like a truth too gentle to argue and too painful to accept. Jack didn’t answer immediately. The fireworks dimmed for a moment, and in that pause, the world seemed to exhale.

Jeeny: “Do you know why that quote touches me?” she asked, her voice softer now. “Because it’s about belonging. A child thinking the world celebrates her — it’s not arrogance. It’s love. It’s the belief that she’s connected to something vast and joyful. Don’t you remember what that felt like?”

Jack: “I remember,” he said quietly. “And I remember when it stopped.”

Host: His hand tightened around the glass until the condensation dripped like tears down his knuckles. The city below erupted again in light, but his gaze stayed locked on something invisible — a memory, perhaps.

Jeeny: “When did it stop for you?”

Jack: “When I realized birthdays didn’t stop the world from breaking. When I watched people fight over flags, when I saw a country divided even as fireworks lit the same sky.”
He turned to her, his eyes glinting with something fragile — not anger, but memory. “Do you remember the photo of that little girl in 1945 — the one holding a sparkler while her city still smelled of smoke from war? They said it was peace, but it was just a pause. A photo pretending everything was fine.”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she whispered. “But maybe pretending is how people survive. Maybe she needed that sparkler to believe the world wasn’t only rubble.”

Host: A firework burst overhead, raining tiny embers that glowed against the dark like falling stars. Jeeny lifted her gaze, her eyes glimmering, her breath visible in the humid night.

Jeeny: “Jack, maybe Gloria Stuart’s thought wasn’t naïve at all. Maybe it’s the essence of innocence — seeing joy and thinking it belongs to everyone. Maybe we were meant to start that way, before the world teaches us to separate our happiness from others’.”

Jack: “You’re saying delusion is divine.”

Jeeny: “I’m saying empathy begins in delusion,” she replied. “A child’s illusion that the world celebrates them is what later becomes the adult’s wish to make others happy. We lose that link, and then we wonder why the world feels empty.”

Host: Her words rippled through the space between them, colliding with the echo of fireworks, with the whisper of wind through flags, with the faint music below. Jack’s expression softened, just slightly, as though her meaning had struck a chord.

Jack: “You really think joy can save us?”

Jeeny: “No,” she said, shaking her head. “But remembering it can.”

Host: A long silence followed, deep and strange. Jack leaned back, watching the sky where a new firework bloomed — this one golden, expanding like a heartbeat. The reflection caught in his eyes, and for a moment, his usual skepticism faltered.

Jack: “You know,” he murmured, “I used to love this day too. The noise, the light, the feeling that everyone was together. Then I started seeing the cracks — the arguments, the politics, the empty patriotism.”

Jeeny: “Cracks don’t mean it’s broken,” she said. “They mean it’s human.”

Host: Her voice was steady now, calm as the flickering of a single candle in wind. Jack looked at her — truly looked — and in her gaze he saw not naïveté, but something stronger: belief hardened by compassion.

Jack: “So you still think everyone’s celebrating together tonight?”

Jeeny: “I think,” she smiled faintly, “they’re all celebrating something inside themselves — freedom, love, memory, survival. And maybe, somewhere deep down, that’s the same thing.”

Host: The night seemed to hush for a brief, sacred instant. The last firework flared, shimmering above them like a blossom of light, before dissolving into the dark. The city sighed beneath it, alive yet weary.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right,” he said finally. “Maybe it’s not about what they celebrate, but that they still can.”

Jeeny: “Exactly,” she whispered. “That they still can.”

Host: The light from the final explosion faded, leaving behind a soft glow from distant lamps. The rooftop settled into quiet, broken only by the faint crackle of spent sparklers and the low hum of traffic below. Jack poured the last of his whiskey into her glass, and she took it — their fingers brushing lightly.

Jeeny: “To all the birthdays that belong to everyone,” she said.

Jack: “And to the illusions that keep us human,” he replied.

Host: The sky was dark again, but something brighter lingered in their eyes — a reflection not of fireworks, but of a small, stubborn light within. The city breathed, the night stretched, and the air carried that rare, fleeting feeling that the world, for a moment, was one — as if somewhere, a little girl still believed the whole world celebrated just for her.