Anger, if not restrained, is frequently more hurtful to us than

Host: The subway station was nearly empty. The late train had come and gone, leaving only echoes — the faint hum of electricity in the rails, the soft drip of water from the concrete ceiling, and the whisper of wind that always follows something leaving.

At the far end of the platform, under a flickering fluorescent light, Jack stood by a pillar, his hands in his pockets, his jaw set. His reflection in the tiled wall looked like a man trying not to boil.

Across from him, sitting on the cold bench, Jeeny watched in silence — her breath visible in the underground chill, her eyes calm, but not unfeeling. Between them, on the grimy wall behind her, a piece of paper fluttered slightly in the draft. Someone had pasted it there, years ago — a quote that had survived time and graffiti:

"Anger, if not restrained, is frequently more hurtful to us than the injury that provokes it." — Lucius Annaeus Seneca

The light flickered, once, twice — as if agreeing.

Jeeny: (quietly) It’s strange how truth ages well. Two thousand years later, and Seneca’s still right.

Jack: (bitterly) Easy for a philosopher to say. He probably never got betrayed by someone he trusted.

Jeeny: (softly) He got exiled. Twice. By emperors. And still managed to say that.

Jack: (scoffs) Maybe he just learned to live numb.

Jeeny: (shakes her head) No. He learned to live above it.

Jack: (grinning darkly) There’s no “above it” when the knife’s still in you.

Host: The train wind from the tunnel stirred the edges of Jeeny’s coat, lifting it slightly like a breath she hadn’t taken yet. Her eyes didn’t leave him, but they softened — that rare look people have when they’re speaking to the part of someone still worth saving.

Jeeny: (quietly) You’re still bleeding from the injury, Jack. But anger isn’t closing the wound. It’s keeping it open.

Jack: (snapping) What do you want me to do? Just forget it happened? Pretend it didn’t matter?

Jeeny: (firmly) No. I want you to stop letting him live inside you rent-free.

Jack: (laughs sharply) You think anger’s keeping him alive?

Jeeny: (softly) No, Jack. It’s killing you.

Host: The sound of a faraway train echoed through the tunnel — distant thunder, inevitable. The station lights flickered again, each flash cutting across Jack’s face like frames from a film: anger, pain, confusion, exhaustion.

Jack: (after a pause) You know what makes me madder? He doesn’t care. Not one bit. I’m here breaking myself to pieces, and he’s out there — fine. Smiling. Winning.

Jeeny: (quietly) That’s what anger does. It makes you think revenge equals balance. But it doesn’t. It’s gravity. It just keeps you orbiting the thing that hurt you.

Jack: (gritting his teeth) And what — I just walk away? Like none of it mattered?

Jeeny: (gently) You walk away because it mattered. You stop letting the worst part of him decide what kind of person you become.

Host: The train finally roared into view, the sound so loud it filled every silence, every space between their words. Jack’s reflection in the glass blurred — a ghost caught between motion and memory.

Jack: (yelling over the noise) What if I can’t stop being angry?

Jeeny: (steady) Then be angry, Jack — just don’t stay there.

Jack: (after a pause, quieter now) It feels like if I let go, I’ll lose the only thing keeping me standing.

Jeeny: (softly) Maybe what’s keeping you standing is exactly what’s breaking you down.

Host: The doors slid open, spilling out a burst of warm air and the murmur of strangers. Neither of them moved. The train waited — patient, metallic, humming like a living thing.

Jack: (low, trembling) You don’t understand. Anger keeps me from collapsing. It’s armor.

Jeeny: (gently) No, Jack. It’s acid. You’ve mistaken the burn for strength.

Jack: (looks at her) You ever been this angry, Jeeny? So angry it feels like purpose?

Jeeny: (quietly) I have. And it hollowed me.

Jack: (pauses) What stopped it?

Jeeny: (after a long silence) Love. Not for them — for myself. I realized I couldn’t keep living on poison and expect to stay alive.

Host: The train doors closed, the sound sharp — like punctuation on something too long unsaid. The train pulled away, its light fading down the tunnel until only silence remained again.

Jack: (softly) It’s just hard to forgive.

Jeeny: (nods) Forgiveness isn’t for them. It’s the key that opens the cage you built for yourself.

Jack: (half-smiling) You talk like you’ve read too much Seneca.

Jeeny: (smiling back) Maybe. Or maybe I just got tired of living with ghosts that never apologized.

Jack: (quietly) So anger’s the ghost, huh?

Jeeny: (nods) And you keep feeding it. Every time you replay what happened, every time you rehearse your revenge, every time you call it strength — you’re giving it life.

Host: The overhead lights hummed softly. The tunnel exhaled a faint breeze. It was the kind of stillness that doesn’t mean nothing’s happening — it means everything is.

Jack: (after a pause) You think Seneca was afraid of anger?

Jeeny: (shaking her head) No. I think he respected it — like fire. Necessary in small doses, deadly in the wrong hands.

Jack: (sighs) You always make philosophy sound like therapy.

Jeeny: (smiles) That’s what it was meant to be. The ancients weren’t trying to write poetry — they were trying to keep themselves sane.

Jack: (softly) Then maybe I need some of that sanity.

Jeeny: (gently) You don’t need a philosopher, Jack. You just need to stop punishing yourself for what someone else broke.

Host: Her words hung in the cold air — warm, but sharp. Jack exhaled slowly, as if something deep in his chest had finally loosened.

Jack: (quietly) You ever think people like me can change?

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) You already are. You’re asking the question. That’s the first step out of the fire.

Jack: (softly) And what’s next?

Jeeny: (stands) Learning to let peace feel less like weakness.

Host: The lights dimmed slightly as another train approached — slower, quieter, like a second chance. The rumble beneath their feet vibrated through the concrete, a pulse of renewal.

Jeeny: (turning to him) Come on. Let’s go home.

Jack: (hesitates) You sure you want me there?

Jeeny: (smiles) I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t. Besides — it’s time to leave this platform behind.

Host: The train doors opened again. This time, they stepped inside. The lights inside were softer, the air warm. Jack looked out the window as the tunnel blurred into motion.

For the first time in a long while, he didn’t look angry. Just tired. But beneath that — something else. Something almost like release.

Host (closing):
As the train carried them away, the quote on the wall — Seneca’s quiet wisdom — stayed behind in the still air of the empty platform.

"Anger, if not restrained, is frequently more hurtful to us than the injury that provokes it."

And in the fading rumble of the rails, its meaning lingered — not as doctrine, but as truth earned through living:

Anger feels like defense — but it is self-inflicted harm.
The wound may begin outside us, but it only deepens when we refuse to let it close.

And somewhere beneath the city, two hearts began — slowly, quietly — to cool.