Don't live in the past. There's no point. You can't change

Host: The night had settled like a blanket of ash over the city, its streets empty, its lights humming faintly against the quiet. The river nearby moved slowly — dark, heavy, reflecting the glint of faraway headlights like fragments of broken memory.

Inside a small apartment, a lamp buzzed on a chipped wooden table, its glow trembling against the walls lined with photographs — moments long gone, people half-remembered. The clock ticked, steady, cruel.

Jack sat slouched by the window, a glass of whiskey untouched before him. His eyes, cold grey, watched the city below as if expecting something to reappear from its shadows. Jeeny sat on the couch, knees drawn close, her fingers wrapped around a mug of tea. Between them, silence hung like fog.

Jeeny: “Bob Newhart once said, ‘Don’t live in the past. There’s no point. You can’t change anything. What a waste of time.’”

Jack: (smirks faintly) “He’s right. The past’s a graveyard. People waste their lives planting flowers on it.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe remembering where they buried parts of themselves.”

Host: The clock’s ticking seemed louder now, echoing through the room. The air smelled faintly of rain through the open window, carrying the chill of an old, tired city.

Jack: “Remembering isn’t healing, Jeeny. It’s replaying. You keep watching the same scene, expecting a different ending.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because some endings deserve to be rewritten — even if only inside us.”

Jack: (turns, voice sharper) “That’s the lie. The past doesn’t care about your edits. You can write a thousand versions — it won’t move an inch. You can’t change what’s already carved.”

Jeeny: “But you can change how you hold it.”

Host: She said it softly, her voice trembling like the flicker of the lamp. Jack’s jaw tightened, the words hitting a part of him he’d kept sealed.

Jack: “You talk like pain is clay — like you can just mold it into something beautiful. It’s not. It’s stone. Cold, heavy, permanent.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s soil. And things still grow in it — if you let them.”

Jack: “You think that’s wisdom? That’s denial wrapped in poetry.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s faith. Faith that the past isn’t there to haunt us, but to teach us where not to step again.”

Jack: “And how’s that working out for humanity? We’ve repeated the same wars, same mistakes, same heartbreaks for centuries. Nobody learns, Jeeny. We just rename the pain.”

Jeeny: (gazes at the photos on the wall) “Then maybe the goal isn’t to learn — maybe it’s to remember differently. Not to escape it, but to forgive ourselves for surviving it.”

Host: The lamp flickered, casting brief shadows across their faces — the kind of light that reveals rather than hides. Outside, the faint sound of a siren wailed, then faded into the hum of the city’s endless breath.

Jack: “Forgive ourselves. That’s rich. People love forgiveness until they have to apply it to themselves. You think I haven’t tried? The past doesn’t vanish — it lingers like smoke in your lungs.”

Jeeny: “Then exhale it.”

Jack: “And breathe what, exactly?”

Jeeny: “The present.”

Host: The word landed with quiet force. The air seemed to still for a moment, as though even the city was holding its breath.

Jack: (leans forward, voice low) “You talk about the present like it’s some miracle cure. But the present’s built from the past. Every scar, every regret, every failure — it all bleeds into now.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But you don’t have to keep reopening the wounds. They can exist without defining you.”

Jack: “That’s not how memory works. It’s not a switch you flip off.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s a window. You can look out or you can stare at your own reflection forever. The choice is yours.”

Host: Jack’s fingers clenched around the glass, the ice inside clinking like faint echoes of old laughter. The rain began again, tapping lightly against the windowpane, as if marking the rhythm of his resistance.

Jack: “You make it sound so simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not simple. It’s survival. You can drown in the past or you can drink from it. One kills you, the other feeds you.”

Jack: (bitterly) “You sound like someone who’s never drowned.”

Jeeny: (after a pause) “I have. But I learned to float by letting go of the anchor.”

Host: Her eyes glistened, a tear forming but refusing to fall. Jack looked at her — really looked — and saw in her calm something that disarmed him.

He turned back toward the window, the city’s lights reflected in his eyes like memories flickering between pain and possibility.

Jack: “You ever wish you could go back — just for one day?”

Jeeny: “No. Because I wouldn’t recognize who I was. And maybe that’s the proof that I’ve moved forward.”

Jack: “I wish I could. Not to change anything. Just to feel it one more time — before it all fell apart.”

Jeeny: “Then you’re not missing the past, Jack. You’re missing a version of yourself that believed it would last.”

Host: The room fell silent again. Only the sound of rain, steady, like applause for something neither could name.

Jeeny: “Bob Newhart wasn’t being cold when he said that. He was being free. The past traps us because it gives us a script we can’t stop reading. But life — real life — happens off-script.”

Jack: “Freedom through forgetting?”

Jeeny: “No. Freedom through acceptance. You can’t erase the past, but you can stop performing it.”

Jack: “And what if the past is the only part that ever made sense?”

Jeeny: “Then you’ve mistaken familiarity for meaning.”

Host: The lamp’s bulb buzzed, its light dimming, throwing their shadows long across the floor. Jack set his glass down, finally taking a slow breath — the kind that comes before surrender.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ve been talking to ghosts so long, I forgot they stopped listening.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Then maybe it’s time to talk to the living — starting with yourself.”

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not easy. But it’s necessary.”

Jack: (half-smile) “You ever notice you always win these arguments?”

Jeeny: “Only because I fight for both of us.”

Host: The rain slowed, leaving behind a fragile silence. The clock ticked on, indifferent but steady — marking not loss, but motion. Jack rose, walked to the window, and opened it. Cool air swept in, carrying the scent of wet asphalt and new beginnings.

Jack: “You know something, Jeeny? Maybe Newhart had a point. Maybe the past is a waste of time — not because it’s meaningless, but because it’s already spent.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You can’t relive it — but you can live because of it.”

Jack: “Then maybe I’ll try.”

Jeeny: “Not try, Jack. Do.”

Host: The camera would linger here — on Jack’s face turned toward the night, his grey eyes reflecting the faint shimmer of city lights. Behind him, Jeeny sat quietly, her expression warm, like someone who has seen a soul loosen its chains.

The rain stopped completely, and somewhere a street musician began to play — slow, hopeful, imperfect.

The camera pulled back, the apartment small but alive, the sound of life returning where regret once lived.

And as the screen faded to black, the echo of Newhart’s words drifted softly through the dark:

“Don’t live in the past. There’s no point. You can’t change anything. What a waste of time.”

But in Jack’s quiet exhale, in the city’s heartbeat, and in the faint music rising,
it was clear —
it was never about forgetting the past,
but finally learning how to stop living there.

The present, fragile and fierce,
waited like an open door.