As a matter of fact, forgiveness is not something you feel like

Host: The morning light crept slowly through the thin curtains of a small apartment overlooking the narrow streets of the old quarter. The air smelled of coffee and dust, the sound of vendors echoing from below — voices selling bread, fruit, and memories. A single ceiling fan turned lazily above, whispering the rhythm of a long, unfinished conversation.

At the worn wooden table, Jack sat in silence, his hands clasped around a chipped mug. His grey eyes were distant, heavy with the kind of fatigue that comes from fighting invisible wars. Across from him, Jeeny sat barefoot, her hair tied messily, a notebook open before her. Between them lay the echo of an old wound — not spoken of, but felt, like a shadow on the floor.

Jeeny broke the silence first.

Jeeny: “Jim Bob Duggar once said, ‘Forgiveness is not something you feel like doing, it’s really a choice.’”
She looked up from her notes. “What do you think of that?”

Jack: (after a pause) “I think it’s too easy to say when you haven’t been the one bleeding.”

Host: The fan turned again — a slow, tired rotation that seemed to measure time in sighs. Outside, a motorbike coughed to life, the sound fading like an old argument.

Jeeny: “Maybe forgiveness isn’t about bleeding or not. Maybe it’s about stopping the wound from spreading.”

Jack: “No. It’s about pretending the knife was never there. People call it virtue, but it’s just denial dressed up in morality.”

Jeeny: “That’s not true. Forgiveness doesn’t erase the wound. It just says, ‘I won’t let it control me anymore.’”

Jack: “Control? You think forgiving someone puts you in control? No. It gives power to the one who hurt you. It lets them walk free while you carry the burden of pretending you’re over it.”

Host: The light shifted, spilling gold across the table, catching the faint scars on Jack’s hand — small, pale reminders of another life.

Jeeny watched him closely, her voice softening.

Jeeny: “You talk like someone who’s tried it and failed.”

Jack: (coldly) “I’ve tried it. It doesn’t work.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you didn’t choose it — not really. You just wanted to feel it. But like Duggar said, it’s not something you feel like doing. It’s something you decide.”

Jack: “Decide? You make it sound like switching on a light. Forgiveness isn’t a decision, Jeeny — it’s a battle. Between anger and peace. Between truth and mercy. And sometimes, mercy feels like betrayal.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the point? To stop living in reaction to what broke you?”

Host: A silence settled between them, heavy and human. The air was still except for the faint hiss of the coffee pot cooling. Jeeny traced her finger along the edge of the notebook — circles, small and aimless.

Jeeny: “You know, Gandhi forgave the men who attacked him. Nelson Mandela forgave the people who imprisoned him for twenty-seven years. They didn’t do it because they felt like it, Jack. They did it because hate was too heavy to carry.”

Jack: “And yet, both of them spent their lives fighting the same evils they forgave. You see the peace — I see the exhaustion. Forgiveness doesn’t end the fight; it just changes its weapon.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it changes the fighter.”

Host: The sunlight brightened. The room glowed — warm, fragile, human. Dust floated like suspended thoughts in the air.

Jack leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight. His eyes were still sharp, but there was something else beneath — a flicker of grief, of confession waiting for a place to land.

Jack: “You want to know the truth, Jeeny? I once forgave someone I shouldn’t have. My brother. He stole from me — not money, something worse. He betrayed my trust. And when I forgave him, he did it again. Forgiveness doesn’t heal evil — it feeds it.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It reveals it. It shows who’s capable of growth and who isn’t. You forgave him because part of you hoped he’d change. That hope — that’s not weakness. That’s strength.”

Jack: “Then why does strength feel like stupidity?”

Jeeny: “Because it’s easier to hate. Hate gives you fire. Forgiveness gives you silence — and silence is terrifying.”

Host: A long moment passed. The street below filled with the chatter of children walking home from school. The echo of their laughter drifted through the open window — light, careless, undeserved.

Jack: (quietly) “When I was a kid, I used to think forgiving someone made you holy. My mother used to say, ‘You forgive because God forgave you.’ But I’m not sure I believe in that anymore.”

Jeeny: “You don’t need to believe in God to believe in grace.”

Jack: “Grace?” He chuckled bitterly. “Grace is for saints. The rest of us are just trying to get through the day without breaking.”

Jeeny: “Grace is exactly for people like us — the ones breaking. It’s what keeps you from becoming like the ones who hurt you.”

Host: The light dimmed slightly as a cloud drifted past. The room cooled. The city’s hum turned low, distant — a rhythm that matched their breathing.

Jack: “So you’re saying forgiveness isn’t about them — it’s about you.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s self-defense of the soul.”

Jack: “Then why does it feel like surrender?”

Jeeny: “Because your pride still confuses peace with victory.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. He stood and walked to the window, looking out at the narrow alley, the stray dog sleeping by a cart, the endless movement of life continuing without apology.

Jeeny’s voice reached him softly, like a fragile thread.

Jeeny: “You can’t heal if you keep rehearsing the wound.”

Jack: “And you can’t protect yourself if you keep pretending it didn’t happen.”

Jeeny: “Forgiveness isn’t pretending, Jack. It’s remembering — without hate.”

Host: The words hung in the air, heavy and luminous. Jack’s shoulders sagged slightly. He closed his eyes, the sunlight touching his face, the faint echo of her words settling inside him like the slow fall of dust.

Jack: (quietly) “So it’s not a feeling… it’s a choice.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Every day, sometimes every hour. You choose it until it starts to feel real.”

Jack: “And if it never does?”

Jeeny: “Then at least you tried. And that trying — that’s where healing begins.”

Host: The fan kept turning, steady and slow, slicing the silence into manageable pieces. Jack turned back toward her, his eyes softer now, no longer sharp, just tired.

Jack: “You make it sound like forgiveness is a kind of rebellion.”

Jeeny: “It is. Against bitterness. Against the instinct to destroy. Against the part of you that says, ‘I’ll never be whole again.’”

Jack: “And what if I don’t want to rebel?”

Jeeny: (smiling gently) “Then you’ll just stay loyal to your pain.”

Host: Outside, the sun broke free from the clouds, flooding the room with sudden gold. The walls glowed, the floor shone, and for a moment — brief but undeniable — the light felt like mercy.

Jack sank back into his chair. The silence between them had changed — no longer tense, but tender.

Jack: “Maybe… maybe I’ll try. Not for him. But for me.”

Jeeny: “That’s all it ever was meant to be.”

Host: The city stirred again. A soft breeze brushed the curtains, carrying the faint scent of jasmine and the distant sound of church bells.

Jack lifted his cup — now cold — and smiled faintly.

Jack: “Forgiveness as a choice, huh? I suppose that’s one decision I’ve been postponing for too long.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe today’s a good day to begin.”

Host: The light caught their faces — two people framed in the gentle brightness of morning. The world outside moved on, unknowing.

And in that small room above the humming street, the choice of forgiveness — fragile, imperfect, yet deliberate — began to breathe.