Attitudes are more important than facts.

Host: The rain fell like threads of glass, fine and relentless, drawing silver lines across the windows of the diner. Steam rose from the coffee machines, curling into the air like ghosts of lost thoughts. The neon sign outside — “Open 24 Hours” — flickered, humming its lonely tune into the night.

At a corner booth, Jack sat, hands wrapped around his cup, the light catching the edges of his sharp, tired face. Across from him, Jeeny watched, her eyes calm, her hair damp from the storm, glowing faintly under the neon. Between them, a plate of uneaten fries, a cold conversation, and the weight of truth that neither had yet spoken.

Jeeny: “George MacDonald once said, ‘Attitudes are more important than facts.’ I used to think that was naïve. But now… I’m not so sure.”

Jack: “Sounds like the kind of thing people say when the facts aren’t on their side.”

Host: The rain tapped against the glass like a metronome, counting the rhythm of their tension. Jack’s voice was low, rough, the voice of a man who’d argued with reality too many times and lost.

Jeeny: “Maybe. But facts don’t move the world, Jack. People do. And people are moved by belief, by hope, by attitude — not by statistics.”

Jack: “You’re wrong. The facts are all that keep us grounded. Attitude is air — it feels good, but it won’t hold your weight. The fact is the ground you stand on.”

Jeeny: “And what good is the ground if you never learn to lift your feet?”

Host: A beat. The rain eased, but the air inside the diner grew thicker, as though the words themselves condensed into the smoke and coffee smell.

Jack: “You really believe attitude changes reality?”

Jeeny: “It changes how you meet it. That’s the difference between drowning and swimming, Jack. The water’s the same — the fact is the same. It’s your attitude that decides whether you sink.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his jaw tight, eyes fixed on the window, the reflections of passing headlights sliding across his face like thoughts he didn’t want to claim.

Jack: “You think that’s enough? Attitude? Try telling that to the guy who just lost his job, or the woman who’s sick. You think their outlook changes the diagnosis?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not the diagnosis, but it changes the fight. The same storm, Jack — some people build shelters, some learn to dance in it.”

Jack: “That’s the problem, Jeeny — you romanticize the rain. But it drowns people. You think it’s a metaphor, but for some, it’s just cold and wet.”

Jeeny: “And yet, somehow, others plant in it.”

Host: The light from the sign flickered again, red, blue, red, blue — painting their faces in opposite colors, as if the world itself wanted them to disagree.

Jeeny: “You remember that pilot who landed the plane on the Hudson River? Sully. Everyone called it a miracle, but he said it was attitude, not luck. He refused to panic when the facts screamed disaster. That’s what saved them.”

Jack: “And if he’d failed, we’d say the facts won. Success always justifies the attitude after the fact.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But the attitude is what makes the success possible in the first place. You don’t win because the odds are in your favor — you win because you refuse to believe they aren’t.”

Host: The waitress passed by, refilling their cups with coffee, eyes glazed with fatigue, a half smile that spoke of long nights and small mercies. Jack watched her, his voice quieter now.

Jack: “You ever wonder what her attitude is, Jeeny? She’s been here every night this week, working through the storm, serving people who don’t even see her. You think she’s happy because she chooses to be?”

Jeeny: “Maybe she chooses not to be bitter. That’s a choice too, Jack. You can’t control your circumstances, but you can control your spirit. That’s what MacDonald meant — facts build the world, but attitude creates your place in it.”

Jack: “Sounds like a luxury for optimists.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s a necessity for survivors.”

Host: The rain stopped. The silence that followed was thick, heavy, yet gentle, like the moment after a confession. The neon light buzzed, casting rings of color across the linoleum floor.

Jeeny: “When I lost my mother, I stopped believing in faith, in hope — in all that stuff I used to preach. The fact was she was gone, and no thought could change that. But my attitude… it decided whether I died with her or lived for her.”

Jack: (softly) “And you chose to live.”

Jeeny: “Every day. Sometimes badly, sometimes barely, but I chose it. Because facts can break you — but they can’t bury you unless you let them.”

Host: Jack’s fingers tightened around his cup. He looked at Jeeny — really looked — and the cynicism in his eyes wavered, like a light flickering in the wind.

Jack: “You know, for someone who believes in attitude, you still cry a lot.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s part of it. Attitude isn’t smiling through the pain, Jack — it’s facing it and deciding to stay.”

Host: A truck passed outside, its headlights spilling across the booth, washing their faces in motion, revealing the lines of weariness, the shared history of fights, failures, and small victories.

Jack: “So you’re saying that even when the facts are against you, you just... think your way out of it?”

Jeeny: “No. You feel your way through it. You decide what the fact means, not the other way around. You can’t change what happens, Jack — but you can choose who you become because of it.”

Host: The clock ticked, softly, steadily, like a heartbeat that refused to quit. Jack sighed, leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table.

Jack: “Maybe I’ve been seeing the facts too clearly.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. You’ve been seeing them without the light of your own belief. Facts are shadows — your attitude is the sun.”

Host: The rain started again — gentler this time, like a memory returning. The waitress laughed softly at the counter, a radio played a tune from the past, and the diner felt suddenly alive.

Jack: “So if attitude is more important than facts, what’s mine, then?”

Jeeny: “Right now? Cynical. But recovering.”

Host: He smiled, quietly, gratefully. For the first time in a long while, the fact of his defeat didn’t feel final. It felt like a pause — a comma, not a period.

Jeeny reached for her cup, raised it slightly, as if in a toast.

Jeeny: “To attitudes, then — the only facts that matter.”

Jack: “To attitudes — the art of fighting the facts.”

Host: The camera would pull back, the diner glowing like a lantern in the storm, the two of them framed in neon, coffee, and possibility.

The rain kept falling, the world kept turning, and the facts remained — but attitude, like a flame, burned on, defiant, fragile, and eternal.