A couple of people I knew went to university apart from me, but

Host: The rain had just stopped, leaving the streets of London glazed in a thin film of silver water. The streetlights cast amber halos on the wet pavement, where footsteps echoed in slow rhythm. A small pub at the corner of Bloomsbury still buzzed faintly with laughter, but here — in the back room, beyond the noise — a quiet tension hovered.

Jack sat at a wooden table, his hands wrapped around a glass of beer untouched for the last half hour. His grey eyes stared into the foam as if it were a mirror of his own restlessness. Across from him, Jeeny leaned forward, her dark hair falling like a shadow curtain across her shoulder, her eyes glowing with a kind of moral fire that no storm could dim.

Host: Outside, a taxi splashed through a puddle. Inside, silence hung, thick as dust on an old book.

Jeeny: “You used to be proud of it, didn’t you? Being the smartest one. The one who never had to try.”

Jack: (smirking faintly) “Proud? I was just… aware. You don’t apologize for being born with longer legs, do you? You just walk.”

Jeeny: “But you didn’t just walk, Jack. You floated above the rest. You made effort look like weakness.”

Jack: “And what’s wrong with that? If something comes easy, why pretend it doesn’t? You call it arrogance — I call it honesty.”

Host: The light from the lamp overhead flickered, catching the edges of Jack’s jawline, the sharpness in his expression, and the faint tremor in his voice that betrayed more than he wished.

Jeeny: “It’s not honesty, Jack. It’s detachment. You’re not proud of what you did — you’re proud of what you didn’t have to do. That’s the disgusting part Ricky Gervais talked about. That kind of pride feeds on laziness and ego.”

Jack: “Disgusting? Come on. You think the world rewards effort? Look around — it rewards results. Nobody cares if you bled for your success, only if you won.”

Jeeny: “But what happens when you start believing that? When you stop trying, not because you can’t, but because you don’t have to? That’s when the soul begins to rot, Jack. Slowly, silently.”

Host: A long pause. The rain began again, softly tapping the windowpane, as if reminding them of time passing, of youth slipping like water through hands.

Jack: “You sound like one of those motivational posters. ‘Work hard. Stay humble.’ I’ve seen enough of that nonsense. I’ve seen people break themselves trying to matter. I didn’t want that.”

Jeeny: “You didn’t want to fail, Jack. That’s the truth. You hid behind your talent because it made you feel safe. You never tested your limits, so you could always pretend they didn’t exist.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. His eyes darted to the window, then back to her, a storm flickering beneath the surface of his calm.

Jack: “You think I was afraid? I wasn’t. I just didn’t see the point. Life’s a lottery, Jeeny. Some get luck, some don’t. I got a good hand. Why keep drawing?”

Jeeny: “Because that’s not what being alive means! You don’t grow by sitting on what you were given. You grow by challenging it, by failing, by learning who you are when everything you relied on collapses.”

Jack: “Failing doesn’t make you wise, Jeeny. It makes you tired.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It makes you human.”

Host: The room tightened with their voices. The old clock on the wall ticked, each second sounding like a pulse of something alive between them.

Jeeny: “You know what that quote means, really? ‘Doing well without trying’ — it’s not a gift, it’s a trap. The moment you start being proud of what cost you nothing, you start becoming less.”

Jack: “Less? Or just… smarter? You think it’s noble to struggle when you don’t have to? That’s like climbing a mountain barefoot just to feel the pain.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Sometimes the pain is the only thing that reminds you you’re climbing at all.”

Host: Her voice shook slightly, not from anger, but from something deeper — remorse, maybe. The kind that echoes from the past, from every moment when she too had once been proud of ease, of comfort.

Jack: “You always romanticize the hard way. As if suffering automatically grants meaning. Look at history — geniuses who never worked hard, who changed the world because they were born different. Mozart wasn’t sweating over every note. He just had it.”

Jeeny: “And he still died miserable, Jack. Because even genius without effort becomes emptiness. You can’t sustain purpose on talent alone. It’s like a flame without air — bright, then gone.”

Host: Jack’s eyes softened. For a second, the arrogance in him wavered, replaced by something that looked almost like fear.

Jack: “You make it sound like every bit of ease is sin. What about gratitude? Can’t I be grateful for what came easy?”

Jeeny: “You can be grateful. But not proud. Pride without effort is like wearing someone else’s medal.”

Host: The words hung in the air, heavy and deliberate. Outside, a bus rumbled past, its headlights washing over the window, breaking the shadows for just a second — then fading again.

Jack: “You know, I used to think I was better than everyone at school. Smarter, faster. They tried — I didn’t. And that was the point. But lately… I keep wondering if maybe that was the first time I quit without realizing it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it was, Jack. Sometimes the easiest victories are the ones that cost us the most — we just don’t see it until years later.”

Host: Jeeny reached for her cup, the steam from the tea coiling like a thin ghost between them. Jack’s hand brushed his glass, but didn’t lift it. His eyes looked older, as if they had just seen something they couldn’t unsee.

Jack: “So what are you saying? That I should start trying now? That I should rebuild the person I never was?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying you should start becoming the person you could still be. The one who isn’t afraid to care again.”

Host: The wind outside shifted, and a soft hum filled the room, as though the city itself was listening.

Jack: “Caring’s dangerous, Jeeny. It makes you vulnerable. When you don’t care, you don’t lose.”

Jeeny: “And when you don’t care, you don’t live.”

Host: The final silence between them was not cold, but tender. The argument had burned through its flames, leaving only embers — truths that no longer needed defending.

Jack leaned back, his breath slow, his eyes tracing the raindrops crawling down the glass.

Jack: “You know something, Jeeny? Maybe he was right. Maybe it is a revolting attitude — not the pride itself, but the way it blinds you. Makes you think you’re already there, when you haven’t even started.”

Jeeny: (softly) “It takes most people a lifetime to realize that. You’re lucky, Jack — you’re realizing it now.”

Host: The lamp flickered one last time, then settled into a steady glow. Outside, the rain eased, leaving the streets shining like new skin.

Jack: “So, where do you start — after all that wasted brilliance?”

Jeeny: “You start where everyone does. At the bottom, with humility. With a single effort that finally costs something.”

Host: Jeeny smiled, faintly, her eyes reflecting the faint light from the window. Jack nodded — a small, almost imperceptible motion — but it carried the weight of an epiphany.

Outside, the first morning bus rumbled by, and the sound of its engine carried through the quiet. The city was waking, and so was something in him — something long asleep, something finally ready to try.

Host: The camera would have pulled back then, through the rain-streaked glass, over the glittering street, as two souls sat in the afterglow of a truth too human to forget:
that ease is not grace, that talent without effort is waste,
and that growth — the real kind — only begins when pride ends.