But men are men; the best sometimes forget.

Host: The night had a sharp stillness, the kind that feels fragile, as if the world were holding its breath. In the distance, a train horn echoed, fading into the cold fog that clung to the harbor. Lanterns swung gently from rusted hooks, their light trembling across wet stone. The sea whispered in its restless language, lapping against the docks, humming an old melancholy tune.

Jack stood at the edge, his coat collar raised, his eyes fixed on the horizon. A bottle of whiskey rested beside him, half empty, its glass catching the faint glow of the moon. Jeeny approached, her footsteps soft, her breath visible in the chill. She paused, watching him with the kind of care that feels both tender and tired — the way one might watch a wound that refuses to close.

Jeeny: “Shakespeare once wrote, ‘But men are men; the best sometimes forget.’”

Host: The words hung in the mist, like ashes suspended in air. Jack didn’t move, but his jaw tightened, the muscle flickering beneath the skin — the telltale sign of memory, or perhaps regret.

Jack: “Yeah. And that’s the tragedy of it, isn’t it? Even the best of us fail. We forget what we’ve promised, who we’ve loved, what we were supposed to be. One moment of weakness — that’s all it takes. And suddenly, you’re not the man you thought you were.”

Jeeny: “You’re not supposed to be perfect, Jack. That’s the whole point of that line. ‘Men are men.’ Even Shakespeare knew — the greatest fall, sometimes, is human nature itself. It’s not sin. It’s… limitation.”

Jack: “Limitation?” He laughed bitterly. “No. It’s choice. People always hide behind ‘human nature.’ But forgetting — that’s not biology, Jeeny. That’s convenience. We remember what suits us, and we forget what hurts.”

Host: The wind rose, curling around them, carrying the smell of salt and iron. Jeeny pulled her scarf tighter, her eyes searching his, but his gaze remained anchored on the sea — as though the waves held an answer he couldn’t reach.

Jeeny: “Maybe. But I don’t think all forgetting is selfish. Sometimes it’s survival. If we remembered everything — every loss, every guilt, every heartbreak — we’d never move again. Memory’s merciful that way.”

Jack: “Merciful? It’s treacherous. Forgetting lets us rewrite the past. We erase our mistakes instead of learning from them. Look around, Jeeny — history itself is built on what men chose to forget. Wars, lies, betrayals — all rewritten, all justified.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what forgiveness is too, Jack? A kind of chosen forgetting? The ability to start again without dragging every corpse of the past behind you?”

Jack: “Forgiveness is remembering — and loving anyway. Forgetting is cowardice dressed up as healing.”

Host: The moonlight flickered across the water, fractured by each wave. The harbor lights blinked in the distance, a morse code of ghosts. Jeeny’s eyes softened, but her voice grew fierce, almost pleading.

Jeeny: “Then tell me, Jack. When you walked away from her — from us — was that remembering or forgetting?”

Host: The air froze. The sound of the sea seemed to fade, leaving only the silence between them — sharp, bright, and merciless. Jack turned, his eyes gray, storm-filled, the kind that belong to someone who has seen too much of himself.

Jack: “You think I forgot? I wish I could forget, Jeeny. But that’s the curse, isn’t it? The best sometimes forget, and the worst… never do.”

Jeeny: “Then why do you keep pretending you’ve moved on? You punish yourself for what can’t be undone, instead of forgiving what was human.”

Jack: “Because forgiveness doesn’t erase the fact that I failed. You want to talk about Shakespeare? His line’s not an excuse. It’s an indictment. He knew that even the noble falter — kings, heroes, lovers — they all break under their own humanity. That’s what makes tragedy tragic.”

Jeeny: “But tragedy isn’t the end, Jack. It’s the mirror. It shows you who you are. Maybe the point isn’t that we forget — it’s that we remember differently. We stop bleeding from the same wound.”

Host: The fog thickened, swirling around them like a shroud. A ship horn moaned in the distance, a long, low wail that felt almost like a lament. Jack ran his hand through his hair, his voice quieter now, a confession breaking through the armor.

Jack: “You ever think about how fragile memory is? One smell, one sound, and suddenly you’re right back there — a child again, a fool again. I can remember the exact color of her dress, the way she said my name that last night… but I can’t remember what I told her in return. Maybe that’s the real cruelty — memory keeps the pain and loses the redemption.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe redemption isn’t in remembering the moment — it’s in living differently after it. You can’t rewrite the past, but you can rewrite what it does to you.”

Jack: “You sound like a sermon.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I am. Because I still believe the best forget, Jack — not because they don’t care, but because they can’t carry everything. It’s not betrayal; it’s endurance.”

Host: A seagull cried overhead, cutting through the fog. The first hint of dawn began to stain the horizon — a thin line of pink over the gray sea, fragile but insistent, like hope sneaking in where it wasn’t invited.

Jack: “You really believe that? That forgetting can be noble?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. Because remembering everything makes it impossible to love again. And love — flawed, foolish, forgetful love — is still the best part of being human.”

Jack: softly “And the worst.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And that’s why Shakespeare said it — not to condemn, but to remind. That even the best hearts stumble. Even gods, in human skin, fall short. But they rise anyway.”

Host: The light from the east grew brighter, piercing the mist, revealing the outline of the harbor — boats, nets, crates, and the faint movement of life returning to the shore. Jack picked up the bottle, weighed it in his hand, then set it down — a quiet act of surrender.

Jack: “Maybe forgetting isn’t the enemy, then. Maybe it’s the only way to keep walking.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The best forget, Jack — not because they don’t care, but because they still hope.”

Host: The sun broke over the water, turning the sea into a sheet of liquid gold. The fog lifted, and with it, the weight between them. They stood in the new light, two souls, still wounded, but no longer ashamed.

And as the day began, the words of Shakespeare echoed like a quiet benediction in the wind —
“But men are men; the best sometimes forget.”

Not as an excuse.
But as a truth.
As a mercy.
As the only way to be human.