All of us every single year, we're a different person. I don't

Host:
The train station was drenched in the soft glow of golden dusk, that fragile hour when light becomes a memory and time feels suspended between arriving and leaving. The air was filled with the distant echo of footsteps, the murmur of last-minute announcements, and the faint smell of iron, rain, and departure.

Jack sat on a long bench, his suitcase by his side, a half-empty coffee cup trembling slightly in his hands. His grey eyes, weary but searching, followed the streaks of light spilling across the platform, each one a thread of something half-remembered.

Across from him, Jeeny leaned against a pillar, her hair loosely tied, her brown eyes watching him with quiet curiosity. There was something unspoken between them — a shared stillness, the kind that exists only between people who have known both change and loss.

Host:
Behind them, a large clock ticked loudly, each second echoing through the hall like the sound of a life being measured.
And somewhere in that still air floated the words that hung between them, invisible but potent — Steven Spielberg’s truth:

"All of us every single year, we're a different person. I don't think we're the same person all our lives."

Jeeny:
(softly, as if continuing a thought already begun)
It’s strange, isn’t it? How we look in the mirror and see the same face, but everything behind it has already changed.

Jack:
(sighs, half-smiling)
Or maybe it’s just the same face pretending to believe it’s the same soul.

Jeeny:
(smiling faintly)
You think we’re pretending?

Jack:
We have to. If we didn’t, we’d realize we’ve been reborn and buried a thousand times already — with every year, every choice, every regret.

Host:
The train whistle sounded in the distance — low, mournful, like the sound of time calling its children home.

Jeeny:
But isn’t that the beauty of it? We’re supposed to change. That’s how we grow.

Jack:
(leans back)
Grow, sure. But do we ever really know who we’ve grown into? Or do we just keep becoming strangers to ourselves — a new version every year, built from the ashes of the last?

Host:
The light shifted — the sunset now a blaze of amber across the floor, stretching shadows long and soft. For a moment, they both sat in silence, their silhouettes framed by the dying light of day.

Jeeny:
I think that’s what Spielberg meant — that we’re meant to be strangers to who we were. If we stayed the same, we’d never be able to tell our own story again.

Jack:
You sound like a director yourself. Always turning life into a script.

Jeeny:
Maybe because it is one. Only it keeps rewriting itself, every year, without asking our permission.

Jack:
And we’re the actors, pretending the lines still fit.

Jeeny:
(laughs softly)
Sometimes the improvisation is better than the script.

Host:
The train arrived then — the sudden rush of air, the grind of metal, the flare of headlights cutting through the dusk. For a brief second, their faces were illuminated — two travelers on the same platform, caught between departure and becoming.

Jack:
You ever look back at an old photo of yourself and feel like you’re looking at someone else’s life?

Jeeny:
All the time. It’s like watching a film you once starred in but don’t remember shooting.

Jack:
Yeah. Sometimes I wonder if the person I was back then would even recognize me now.

Jeeny:
(smiling)
Maybe he wouldn’t. But that’s not always a bad thing. Sometimes not recognizing yourself means you’ve survived something.

Host:
The station hummed with the sounds of people leaving, arriving, reuniting — the orchestra of constant motion, the proof that change never pauses, not even for a heartbeat.

Jack:
You think we ever stop becoming new versions of ourselves?

Jeeny:
Maybe when we stop feeling. Or stop dreaming. Until then, every day’s just another draft of the same story.

Jack:
Then what happens when we reach the final version?

Jeeny:
(softly)
Maybe that’s when the story finally makes sense.

Host:
He looked at her, really looked, as if trying to see the years between who she was and who she’d become. And in that gaze, something shifted — a quiet realization that the people we once loved never truly stay the same, but if we’re lucky, they keep evolving with us.

Jack:
(half-smiling)
You know, I used to be afraid of change. Thought it meant losing everything familiar.

Jeeny:
And now?

Jack:
Now I think it’s the only way we stay alive.

Jeeny:
(nods)
Exactly. Every version of us leaves behind a little ghost — the person we were, waiting quietly in the past, grateful that we didn’t stop moving.

Host:
The train doors opened with a hiss, and a stream of light flooded the platform. For a moment, it looked like something sacred — a passageway from what was to what could be.

Jack picked up his suitcase, hesitated, then turned back to Jeeny.

Jack:
Do you ever miss the people you used to be?

Jeeny:
Sometimes. But mostly, I just try to make peace with them. They got me here, after all.

Host:
She smiled, and in that smile there was both nostalgia and acceptance — the quiet grace of someone who had learned to make friends with her own ghosts.

The clock struck the hour. The sound was soft, deliberate, final.

Jack:
(softly)
Maybe that’s what growing up really means — not becoming someone new, but forgiving who you used to be.

Jeeny:
(smiles warmly)
And loving who you’re still trying to become.

Host:
The train began to move. Jeeny’s hair caught the wind, her eyes reflecting the glow of the departing light. Jack watched her as the platform slid slowly away, the world moving forward as it always does.

The sunset deepened into twilight, the last golden rays vanishing behind the skyline — the closing scene of a story that was still being written, somewhere deep within the quiet rhythm of their hearts.

And in the lingering echo of motion and memory, Spielberg’s words found their reflection —

That we are all shifting constellations of who we were,
never fixed, never final —
just versions of ourselves
learning, year by year,
how to become a little more true.