Change the changeable, accept the unchangeable, and remove

Host: The train station was alive with the restless hum of departure—voices rising and fading, wheels clattering over iron, the sharp smell of rain on metal. The evening light slanted through the high glass ceiling, painting the tiled floor with long stripes of gold and shadow.

Jack sat on a wooden bench, his bag at his feet, his gaze fixed on the giant clock above the tracks. The second hand moved like a guillotine—steady, relentless, final.

Jeeny approached from the far platform, her coat trailing behind her, her steps deliberate, almost meditative. She carried no luggage, only a folded paper ticket in one hand and a book pressed to her chest in the other.

Host: The moment between them was thick with everything unsaid, that fragile tension that always hangs between a person about to leave and another who refuses to.

Jeeny: “Denis Waitley once said, ‘Change the changeable, accept the unchangeable, and remove yourself from the unacceptable.’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Sounds like the kind of advice you get from a motivational poster above a water cooler.”

Jeeny: (sitting beside him) “Maybe. But sometimes clichés survive because they’re the last things standing after the truth has worn itself out.”

Jack: “So which are you doing tonight—changing, accepting, or removing?”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Maybe all three.”

Host: A train horn sounded in the distance, long and lonely. The station seemed to hold its breath, waiting.

Jack: “You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

Jeeny: “I’m moving. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “You say that like it makes it easier.”

Jeeny: “It doesn’t. But it makes it necessary.”

Host: The light shifted, the sun sinking deeper, the glass ceiling now awash with the bruised hues of dusk. The air smelled of iron and endings.

Jack: “So what’s the unacceptable part? Me?”

Jeeny: “No. Staying in a story that’s already stopped telling itself.”

Jack: (bitterly) “You always make philosophy sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “It’s not philosophy, Jack. It’s survival.”

Host: He turned to look at her, his face half in shadow. The fatigue there wasn’t just from travel—it was from years of trying to fix what no longer wanted fixing.

Jack: “You really think life is that simple? That we can just categorize everything—change it, accept it, or leave it?”

Jeeny: “Not simple. But clear. We spend our lives in confusion because we refuse to admit which one we’re facing. We fight what’s unchangeable, tolerate what’s unacceptable, and neglect what we could change.”

Jack: “So you think leaving me is clarity?”

Jeeny: (gently) “I think staying when I’ve stopped growing is cruelty—to both of us.”

Host: A child’s laughter echoed from another platform, then vanished beneath the grinding metal of another arriving train. The air filled with steam and the faint hiss of brakes.

Jack: “You make it sound noble. But isn’t it just quitting?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes quitting is what courage looks like when the world has mistaken endurance for love.”

Jack: “And what about promises?”

Jeeny: “Promises are only sacred if both people still want to keep them.”

Host: Her words settled like ashes—soft, inevitable. Jack rubbed a hand across his face, the muscles in his jaw tightening against everything he didn’t want to say.

Jack: “You used to believe in forever.”

Jeeny: “I still do. I just stopped believing that forever always means staying.”

Host: The clock ticked louder now, or maybe it only seemed that way because neither of them could fill the silence it created.

Jack: “You sound like Waitley himself—measured, calm, philosophical. But do you even believe what you’re saying, or are you just rehearsing it so it hurts less?”

Jeeny: “Both.”

Jack: (after a pause) “You’re better at acceptance than I am.”

Jeeny: “No, I just learned that refusing to accept reality doesn’t make it change.”

Host: The train to somewhere else—anywhere else—pulled in, its windows glowing like a string of quiet lanterns. People rose, gathered their things, and drifted toward the open doors like pilgrims to the altar of movement.

Jack: “I can change.”

Jeeny: (looking at him, tender but steady) “Maybe. But I can’t keep waiting to see if you will.”

Jack: “Then this is it?”

Jeeny: “No. This is the beginning of honesty.”

Host: He let out a breath that trembled more than he meant it to. The sound of his exhale was almost lost in the engine’s low roar.

Jack: “And what about you? What if you’re wrong? What if leaving is the mistake you can’t undo?”

Jeeny: “Then I’ll accept it.”

Jack: “And if the world breaks you for it?”

Jeeny: “Then I’ll change what I can.”

Jack: “And if it hurts too much to bear?”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Then I’ll remove myself from it.”

Host: Her calmness didn’t come from indifference—it came from understanding, the kind that arrives after years of trying to bargain with pain.

Jack: “You talk about letting go like it’s peace.”

Jeeny: “It’s not peace. It’s pruning. You cut what’s dead so something else can grow.”

Host: The train conductor’s voice echoed faintly through the hall—“All aboard.” The words hung like a commandment.

Jack: “You could still stay.”

Jeeny: “And you could still change. But neither would make us free.”

Host: The train hissed again, impatient. Jeeny stood, her shadow stretching across the platform. For a moment, she looked down at him—not as lover to lover, but as one soul to another who had walked as far as they could together.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack—Waitley wasn’t giving advice. He was giving permission. Permission to stop apologizing for saving yourself.”

Jack: (quietly) “And who saves the ones left behind?”

Jeeny: “The same God who gives them the strength to start again.”

Host: She handed him the folded ticket, her fingers brushing his—soft, final.

Jeeny: “Keep it. For when you’re ready to move again.”

Jack: “And if I never am?”

Jeeny: “Then you’ll have learned to accept.”

Host: The doors closed behind her. The train pulled away, carrying its soft glow into the night. Jack remained on the bench, the folded ticket still warm in his hand.

Outside, the rain began again, gentle and forgiving, tracing silver paths down the window. He stared at it, at his reflection layered with streaks of light and shadow.

For the first time, he didn’t reach for the past. He simply breathed.

Host: The clock above him ticked forward, indifferent yet honest.

And in that quiet moment, Jack understood—
that change, acceptance, and release were not choices of strength,
but acts of grace.

That sometimes the greatest courage
is not in holding on,
but in knowing when to step away.

The rain fell harder. The night deepened.

And the world, indifferent yet merciful, kept moving—
as it always does.