Change is not only likely, it's inevitable.

Host: The train station hummed with restless energy — that particular kind of human motion that exists between departure and arrival, between what was and what will be. Voices echoed through the vaulted ceilings, the rhythm of suitcase wheels beating like a hundred separate heartbeats. The air smelled faintly of rain and steel.

Jack stood by the edge of the platform, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his long coat, his eyes following the red tail-lights of a departing train. Jeeny stood a few steps behind him, her umbrella half-open, drops of rainwater slipping from its edge like seconds falling from a clock.

Between them hung the quote — quiet, simple, but heavy with the gravity of all human experience:
“Change is not only likely, it's inevitable.” — Barbara Sher

Jeeny: “Funny, isn’t it? We spend our whole lives fighting change — as if it were a disease — when it’s really the only constant thing that promises we’re still alive.”

Jack: “You call it a promise; I call it erosion. Change wears you down, Jeeny. Little by little, until you can’t remember who you were before it started.”

Host: The train in the distance let out a long, low whistle, like a sigh from the earth itself. The rain started again — slow, deliberate, each drop punctuating the conversation like a comma in a long, unfinished sentence.

Jeeny: “You make it sound tragic. But maybe erosion isn’t destruction — maybe it’s sculpting. The river doesn’t ruin the stone, Jack. It gives it shape.”

Jack: “You always find poetry in pain. But tell that to someone who’s lost everything they loved — their home, their certainty, their youth. What shape does that leave?”

Jeeny: “The shape of resilience.”

Jack: “Resilience is just the fancy name we give to people who survive because they have no other choice.”

Host: His voice cracked slightly at the end, almost imperceptibly. Jeeny caught it, though. Her eyes softened — not with pity, but with understanding.

Jeeny: “You’ve changed, Jack. You know that, right?”

Jack: “Everyone does. It’s not a virtue.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But it’s truth. You used to think everything could be controlled. Now you know it can’t. That’s growth, even if it hurts.”

Jack: “I didn’t grow. I adapted. There’s a difference.”

Jeeny: “Not really. Survival is just evolution in disguise.”

Host: The station lights flickered, catching the steam rising from the last train like the breath of something ancient and alive. Jeeny closed her umbrella, stepping closer to him.

Jeeny: “Barbara Sher was right — change isn’t a possibility, it’s a law. You can’t outrun it, Jack. But you can dance with it. That’s the difference between living and just existing.”

Jack: “Dancing with a hurricane still gets you wet.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But at least you’re moving.”

Host: He turned to her then, his eyes glinting with that old skepticism — but beneath it, a flicker of something softer.

Jack: “You sound like you’ve made peace with it.”

Jeeny: “I haven’t. But I’ve learned to make room for it. Every change that broke me also opened a window I didn’t know was there.”

Jack: “Windows are for people who still believe the view is worth it.”

Jeeny: “You don’t?”

Jack: “Sometimes. But lately, all I see are reflections — versions of myself I don’t recognize.”

Host: The rain picked up, harder now, drumming against the roof like an impatient reminder. Jeeny took a step closer, her voice steady but threaded with emotion.

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time to stop trying to recognize yourself. You’re not supposed to. That’s the point. We shed versions of who we were to make room for who we’re becoming. Change doesn’t steal identity — it reveals it.”

Jack: “That sounds like something you read in a therapy blog.”

Jeeny: “It’s something I learned watching my mother die and my father start over. Watching him replant his life in soil that had already buried the past. Change didn’t ask him for permission. It demanded participation.”

Host: Her words fell heavy — not with drama, but with truth. Jack’s breathing slowed. The sound of another arriving train swelled in the distance, the tracks trembling under the weight of inevitability.

Jack: “You know what scares me most about change? It doesn’t care about timing. It just arrives, uninvited, and rearranges the furniture of your life while you’re still sleeping.”

Jeeny: “And maybe it moves the chair closer to the window.”

Jack: “Or throws it out entirely.”

Jeeny: “Then you sit on the floor. You still have the view.”

Host: A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth — reluctant, but real. He exhaled, watching the steam of his breath fade into the night.

Jack: “You really believe it’s all for the better, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “Not always. But I believe it’s necessary. Without change, there’s no art, no healing, no story. You and I wouldn’t even be standing here if we hadn’t changed enough to meet where we did.”

Jack: “That sounds romantic.”

Jeeny: “It’s realistic. Every version of you leads to the next chapter. Whether you like it or not.”

Host: The train screeched to a stop beside them, a wave of warm air rushing past, stirring Jeeny’s hair and the loose pages of Jack’s notebook. One page tore free, fluttering into the air before landing in a puddle — ink bleeding, words dissolving into something new.

Jeeny watched it drift, then bent to pick it up, her hands careful, almost reverent.

Jeeny: “See that? Even your words are changing. Nothing stays untouched.”

Jack: “Including us.”

Jeeny: “Especially us.”

Host: A pause — long, deep, filled with the sound of the train’s engine humming like an ancient mantra. Jack looked at her then, and for the first time that evening, his expression wasn’t resistance — it was acceptance.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe change isn’t the enemy. Maybe it’s the author.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And we’re just characters learning our lines.”

Host: The doors of the train slid open with a quiet hiss. Passengers began to board — each one carrying their own version of leaving and beginning.

Jeeny turned to him, her eyes warm, certain.

Jeeny: “You don’t have to fight it, Jack. You just have to keep moving.”

Jack: “And if I don’t know where it’s taking me?”

Jeeny: “Then that’s the adventure.”

Host: The rain stopped. A single beam of pale moonlight slipped through the clouds, glinting off the wet steel of the tracks. Jack stepped forward, glancing once at the departing train, then back at Jeeny.

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It isn’t. It’s just inevitable.”

Host: She smiled, stepping beside him, her hand brushing his — two travelers standing on the edge of uncertainty, the edge of becoming.

The train began to move again, its wheels clattering out a rhythm as old as time:
Change. Move. Change. Move.

And as the night folded around them, Barbara Sher’s truth echoed through the sound — not as threat, but as promise:

that change doesn’t wait for permission,
that it reshapes even the unwilling,
and that in the end, the only way to honor life
is to change with it —
again, and again, and again.