When you wake up each morning, you can choose to be happy or

Host: The morning was a tender melody of light and wind. The sun, shy at first, began to spill over the curtains, painting the small apartment in hues of soft gold. The air smelled of coffee, rain-soaked soil, and a faint trace of something nostalgic — the kind of peace that hides between dawn and consciousness.

Through the open window, the city stretched and stirred, its distant noises blending with the chirping of sparrows. In that quiet, Jack sat by the table, his hands clasped around a chipped mug, eyes still heavy with night’s residue. Jeeny, wrapped in a loose white shirt, leaned on the windowsill, watching the light touch the dust like tiny floating stars.

Neither had spoken yet. The room was alive with stillness — the kind that feels like both a pause and a promise.

Jeeny: (softly, like a morning prayer) “When you wake up each morning, you can choose to be happy or choose to be sad. Unless some terrible catastrophe has occurred the night before, it is pretty much up to you. Tomorrow morning, when the sun shines through your window, choose to make it a happy day.”

(Looking over at Jack) — Lynda Resnick said that. And I think she’s right. Every day gives us a choice.

Jack: (gruffly, without looking up) A choice, huh? You talk like happiness is a switch, Jeeny. Like I can just flip it on after another night of the same thoughts, the same weight pressing on my chest.

Host: His voice was quiet but sharp, like the edge of a knife pressed to a memory. The sunlight reached his face, but he didn’t notice. Jeeny turned, her silhouette glowing against the bright window, her expression both tender and resolute.

Jeeny: It’s not a switch, Jack. It’s a decision. One that you keep making, even when it hurts.

Jack: (scoffing) Decisions don’t change reality. You wake up to the same job, the same loneliness, the same world falling apart. You can’t choose your feelings like you choose your clothes.

Host: The clock on the wall ticked softly, marking the rhythm of his bitterness. A beam of light cut through the steam rising from his coffee, making it look almost holy.

Jeeny: But you can choose where to look, can’t you? You can see the storm, or you can see the sun trying to break through it. The world doesn’t change — only the eyes that see it.

Jack: (leaning back) Easy for you to say. You were born with hope stitched into your skin. Some of us have to fight for a single moment of it.

Jeeny: (gently) Maybe that’s what makes it even more beautiful — when you fight for it.

Host: A faint smile crossed her lips, the kind that isn’t about joy, but about understanding. The light behind her grew brighter, framing her like a painting of quiet faith.

Jack: (grinding his words) You think I don’t try? I wake up every morning, and I try to find a reason to care. But happiness — real happiness — it doesn’t come just because you ask for it.

Jeeny: (walking closer) It’s not something that comes, Jack. It’s something you create. Like a film, or a story, or a day. It’s an act of direction, not chance.

Host: She stopped behind him, her shadow falling across his shoulders, blending with the morning glow. The room felt suspended — as if the world outside had paused to listen.

Jack: (quietly) You make it sound so simple.

Jeeny: It’s not simple. But it’s possible.

Host: The sunlight now flooded the room, touching the edges of the table, the chair, the floor, until even the shadows began to soften. Jack’s eyes lifted toward the window, almost against his will.

Jack: (murmuring) You really think it’s a choice — to be happy?

Jeeny: I think it’s a discipline. Like forgiveness. Or hope.

Host: The air changed — subtle, but unmistakable. The coldness that had clung to the room began to fade. A faint breeze carried the scent of fresh bread from the bakery downstairs, a reminder that the world still moved, still gave.

Jack: (after a pause) What if the sun doesn’t shine, Jeeny? What if the morning never comes?

Jeeny: Then you become your own light.

Host: Her voice broke the last of the darkness inside him. It wasn’t an argument, nor an answer — just a truth. He looked at her, really looked, as if seeing her for the first time in the morning that had always been there.

Jack: (softly) You sound like someone who’s never been broken.

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) I’ve been broken. But I still wake up. I still choose.

Host: The silence that followed wasn’t empty — it was alive, filled with the sound of breathing, the pulse of two hearts rediscovering the world. The light from the window now danced across the table, catching the faint glint of his eyes — no longer cold, but uncertainly awake.

Jack: (after a long breath) Maybe… I’ll try tomorrow.

Jeeny: (reaching for his cup) Don’t wait for tomorrow, Jack. The sun’s already here.

Host: Her hand brushed his — a small touch, yet it carried the weight of something vast, something wordless. Outside, a bird took flight, scattering a handful of light through the window.

Jack: (half-smiling) You always find a way to make the ordinary sound like a miracle.

Jeeny: (whispering) Maybe that’s all a miracle is — something ordinary we finally choose to see.

Host: The morning now glowed in full. The city was awake, and so were they — not entirely healed, not transformed, but present. And in that small presence, there was grace.

The sunlight fell across their faces, soft as a promise, steady as a heartbeat. The day had begun, and for once, it didn’t feel like a burden, but a gift — fragile, fleeting, yet utterly theirs to choose.

Host (closing): And when the camera of the morning slowly pulled back, the scene remained — two souls, bathed in light, quietly deciding that even if the world gave them pain, they would still choose to make it a happy day.