Do what's best for you, and do it to the best of your ability -

Host: The rain had just stopped, leaving a thin mist that clung to the windows of a small city diner. Neon lights flickered against the wet pavement, painting streaks of red and blue across the glass. Inside, the air smelled of coffee and late hours, thick with that particular silence that only follows stormy nights. Jack sat by the window, his hands clasped, his grey eyes fixed on nothing. Jeeny arrived a moment later, her hair damp, her coat dark with rain, and took the seat across from him.

Host: For a while, neither spoke. The clock ticked above the counter. Somewhere in the back, a radio murmured softly. Then, Jeeny broke the silence.

Jeeny: “I was thinking about something Michael Oher once said — ‘Do what’s best for you, and do it to the best of your ability — go after your goals like nobody’s business.’ It sounds… simple, doesn’t it?”

Jack: “Simple? Maybe too simple. Life’s not a motivational poster, Jeeny. Sometimes doing what’s best for you means someone else gets hurt. Sometimes your goals crush other people’s.”

Host: His voice was low, but sharp — like a blade wrapped in velvet. He leaned back, the light cutting across his face, showing the faint shadow beneath his eyes.

Jeeny: “You always find the darkness in every light. Why must it be that way? Oher didn’t mean selfishness — he meant commitment. To live with purpose. To go all in.”

Jack: “Purpose is overrated. Everyone thinks they’re the hero of their own story until reality reminds them they’re just one of many. You chase your goals like it’s nobody’s business, and you’ll find it is someone’s business — the guy who lost his job because you got promoted, the woman whose dream couldn’t fit alongside yours.”

Host: The rain outside began again — softly this time, like whispers against the glass. Jeeny’s fingers traced the rim of her cup, her eyes distant but burning.

Jeeny: “So you’re saying we shouldn’t try? That passion isn’t worth the pain it might cause?”

Jack: “I’m saying that passion’s a dangerous drug. People overdose on it every day — chasing dreams that leave them broke, alone, disappointed. Look at all the burnt-out artists, the failed entrepreneurs. You think they didn’t go after their goals ‘like nobody’s business’?”

Jeeny: “But look at the ones who did — and made it. Oher himself — growing up homeless, bouncing from home to home, until someone believed in him, and he believed in himself. He did what was best for him — he worked for it. That’s not selfish, Jack. That’s survival.”

Host: Her voice rose, trembling not with anger, but with fire. The diner’s lights hummed, reflecting in her eyes like small embers. Jack’s jaw tightened.

Jack: “Survival’s different. He had no choice. For him, chasing a goal was the only way out. But for most of us — we chase for ego, not need. We say ‘I’m doing what’s best for me,’ when really, we just want to feel special.”

Jeeny: “And what’s wrong with wanting to feel special? Isn’t that what separates us from mere existence — the desire to become something? You call it ego; I call it identity.”

Host: A silence fell again — thick, electric. The sound of a truck rumbled outside. The waitress passed, refilling their cups without a word. The steam rose between them like a fragile veil.

Jack: “You know what happens when everyone does what’s ‘best for them’? Chaos. Wars start that way. Companies collapse that way. Families tear apart that way.”

Jeeny: “And you know what happens when nobody does? Regret. Quiet, suffocating regret. The kind that eats at you when you realize you lived safely, but never fully.”

Host: Jack’s fingers drummed on the table — steady at first, then slowing, fading. His eyes flickered toward the window, toward the reflection of his own face against the city’s restless glow.

Jack: “You think I don’t know that regret, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “Then why run from the cure?”

Jack: “Because the cure hurts just as much.”

Host: The words hung in the air, fragile as glass. For the first time that night, Jeeny’s expression softened — the anger replaced by something gentler, deeper.

Jeeny: “I get it. You’ve been burned before. We all have. But you can’t let fear rewrite the meaning of ambition. When Oher said those words, he wasn’t preaching greed. He was saying: no one else will live your life for you. You have to fight for yourself.”

Jack: “Fighting for yourself doesn’t mean trampling others.”

Jeeny: “It doesn’t have to. Doing what’s best for you can inspire others — if you do it with integrity. Look at how his story inspired millions. Look at how people rise because they see someone refuse to give up.”

Host: A train passed in the distance, its low hum vibrating through the floor. Jack rubbed his temples, the faintest smile ghosting his lips — not of joy, but of reluctant recognition.

Jack: “You’re saying the goal itself isn’t the problem — it’s how you chase it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You can chase with empathy as much as with ambition. The heart and the will don’t have to be enemies.”

Host: The neon sign outside flickered, casting a soft blue glow across their faces. Jack’s eyes lifted from his coffee, meeting hers — steady now, searching.

Jack: “You really think you can chase what’s best for you without hurting anyone?”

Jeeny: “Not perfectly. But we can chase it consciously. That’s the difference. To do your best doesn’t mean to conquer — it means to commit, fully, honestly. The best of your ability doesn’t demand perfection; it demands presence.”

Host: Jack looked away again, exhaling slowly, as though something heavy had just been set down. The rain had turned into a fine drizzle, a soft curtain between them and the sleeping city beyond.

Jack: “You make it sound so noble. But what about when the world doesn’t care about your integrity? When it rewards shortcuts and punishes patience?”

Jeeny: “Then you fight anyway. Because the fight defines you, not the outcome. Gandhi didn’t win every battle. Mandela spent 27 years in a cell. But their integrity — that’s what history remembers. Not just that they went after their goals, but how they did.”

Host: The words struck him like a quiet blow. He nodded, barely. For a brief moment, the steel in his eyes gave way to something fragile, something human.

Jack: “You ever get tired, Jeeny? Of believing in all this goodness?”

Jeeny: “Every day. But I’d rather be tired from hope than empty from cynicism.”

Host: A soft laugh escaped Jack — not mocking, but real. He lifted his cup, the steam coiling between them like a fragile bridge.

Jack: “You win tonight. Or maybe Oher does. Maybe doing what’s best for you isn’t selfish — if it makes you the kind of person others can believe in.”

Jeeny: “That’s all I wanted to hear.”

Host: They both smiled, faint but true. The rain outside slowed, then stopped, leaving only the reflection of the city’s quiet light on the wet streets. The clock ticked past midnight. Somewhere, the radio whispered an old soul song, low and tender.

Host: Jack stood, pulling his coat over his shoulders. Jeeny watched, her eyes calm now — like still water after a storm. They stepped out into the night, their footsteps echoing on the pavement, two small figures swallowed by the city’s silence.

Host: The camera would pull back here — the neon light fading into the horizon — and the last image left would be the two silhouettes, side by side, walking not toward certainty, but toward effort. Because maybe that’s all any of us can do:
to do what’s best for ourselves, and to do it — truly — to the best of our ability.