As far as having peace within myself, the one way I can do that

Host: The sun was sinking low over the city, painting the sky in shades of amber and ash. From the wide window of a small apartment, the world outside looked like a film played in slow motion — cars crawling through the evening traffic, the hum of the street below, and the faint echo of a saxophone from a nearby bar. Inside, the air was still, save for the faint scent of coffee and the burnt edge of toast.

Jack sat on the worn couch, his hands clasped, eyes staring into the fading light as if trying to read something written on the horizon. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against the window, her silhouette outlined by the dying sunlight. She had that quiet intensity that made even her silence feel alive.

The television in the corner was muted, replaying a clip of Rodney King — his words appearing in captions beneath his face: “As far as having peace within myself, the one way I can do that is forgiving the people who have done wrong to me. It causes more stress to build up anger. Peace is more productive.”

Host: The room seemed to absorb those words, holding them like incense smoke, heavy and lingering.

Jack: “Forgiveness. That word gets thrown around like a cheap prescription. Doesn’t matter what they did — just forgive and move on, right?”

Jeeny: (softly) “He didn’t say move on. He said peace. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “Peace?” (He lets out a dry laugh.) “Tell that to a man who’s been beaten half to death on camera. Peace doesn’t come from forgiving people like that. It comes from justice.”

Host: The sunlight dimmed behind the buildings, leaving a soft glow that spilled over Jack’s face, catching in the lines that time had carved there — fatigue, disbelief, and that faint tremor of hurt he rarely showed.

Jeeny: “Justice and peace don’t always come together. Sometimes you have to choose.”

Jack: “So you’d forgive someone who broke you? Someone who tore your life apart — you’d just let it go because it’s more ‘productive’?”

Jeeny: “If holding on to it kills me from the inside, yes.”

Host: Her voice trembled, not from weakness, but from memory. She turned away from the window, the streetlights catching in her eyes like small fires.

Jeeny: “My father was a drunk. He used to hit my mother, hit me too. I hated him for years — thought that hatred was justice. But it wasn’t. It was a cage. I kept him alive in my head long after he died.”

Jack: (quietly) “So you forgave him?”

Jeeny: “One day I realized I didn’t want him to own another second of my peace. That’s what forgiveness really is — taking your power back.”

Host: The sound of her words seemed to echo against the walls, wrapping around the faint hum of the city. Jack looked down, his jaw tight, the shadows deepening around his eyes.

Jack: “You make it sound noble. But what about people who don’t deserve it? What about the ones who’d do it again if they could?”

Jeeny: “Then the forgiveness isn’t for them. It’s for you.”

Host: The air thickened, like a storm about to break. Outside, the saxophone had stopped, replaced by the distant sound of sirens — brief, fading, like an echo of the same violence they were speaking of.

Jack: “You really think Rodney King forgave because it healed him? I think he forgave because no one else was going to give him peace. The world sure didn’t.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point. The world doesn’t give you peace — you build it yourself.”

Host: A long silence stretched between them, filled only by the faint drip of a leaky faucet in the kitchen. The light from the window had shifted to a deep orange, wrapping the room in something both tender and sad.

Jack: “You know, I saw that footage when I was a kid. I didn’t even understand it, but I remember my dad muttering, ‘He should’ve known better than to run.’ That’s what stuck with me. How easy it was for people to blame the broken.”

Jeeny: “That’s why his forgiveness mattered. Not because it erased what happened — but because it exposed what didn’t change.”

Jack: “And yet, look around. It still happens. People still get beaten, blamed, forgotten. Peace might be productive, but it doesn’t change the world.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not the world. But it changes you. And sometimes, that’s the only piece of the world you can actually save.”

Host: The room grew darker. A lamp flickered on in the corner, washing the walls in a thin, amber glow. Jack stood, pacing slowly, his shadow dragging behind him like something heavy.

Jack: “You ever notice how people romanticize forgiveness when they’re not the ones who were wronged? It’s easy to preach peace from a pulpit you’ve never been burned on.”

Jeeny: “That’s true. But the people who’ve been burned the most are often the ones who learn peace the hardest way.”

Jack: “And if I can’t forgive?”

Jeeny: “Then you carry them with you — every day, every breath. Until one day, you can’t tell where your pain ends and their power begins.”

Host: The sound of her voice softened, but it cut like glass. Jack stopped pacing. He turned toward her, the light from the lamp drawing a thin line down his face.

Jack: “I tried once. Forgiving someone. Didn’t work.”

Jeeny: “Who?”

Jack: “My brother. He stole everything I had when our mother died — money, house, even the photos. Said I didn’t deserve them because I wasn’t around. I didn’t talk to him for ten years. Then he died in an accident. No apology, no closure. Just silence.”

Jeeny: (gently) “And that silence is what you’re still angry at.”

Jack: “Damn right. He got to die free while I’m still here with his ghost.”

Jeeny: “Then let him go, Jack. Not for him. For you.”

Host: The lamplight flickered, casting moving shadows over their faces. It was as if the room itself was listening — holding its breath. Jack sank back onto the couch, his hands covering his face, his voice rough when he spoke again.

Jack: “How do you forgive a ghost?”

Jeeny: “By realizing you’re the one haunting yourself.”

Host: Her words fell like rain on a long-dry field — gentle, but with the power to break the earth open. Jack’s hands lowered slowly, his eyes glistening, not from tears, but from the effort of facing something too heavy to name.

Jack: “You think peace is productive. I think it’s expensive.”

Jeeny: “It is. But anger costs more.”

Host: The sirens outside had faded completely now, replaced by the soft hum of the city winding down. The lamplight touched Jeeny’s hair, turning it into a small halo.

Jeeny: “You know what forgiveness really is? It’s not saying what they did was okay. It’s saying they don’t get to live rent-free in your soul anymore.”

Jack: (after a pause) “Maybe I could try that.”

Jeeny: “Not all at once. Just one corner of your soul at a time.”

Host: The tension in the room slowly unraveled, replaced by something quiet and fragile — a peace not yet found, but finally sought. Jack reached for his cup of coffee, cold now, but he drank it anyway.

Jack: “You know, I used to think peace was something people said when they’d given up fighting.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s what you find after you’ve finally fought enough.”

Host: Outside, the last glow of sunlight disappeared, leaving the city bathed in a soft, silver dusk. The skyline flickered with lights, each one a heartbeat, each one a story.

Jack: “You win this round, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “It’s not a fight, Jack. It’s a surrender.”

Host: The camera would linger here — two souls sitting in the half-light, the faint hum of the city outside, the echo of Rodney King’s words still hanging in the air. Peace is more productive. And in that small, imperfect room, between two wounded hearts, peace — slow, hesitant, trembling — had finally begun to grow.