During high school, I wanted to work in architecture or

Host: The late afternoon sun spilled through the tall windows of a half-finished building, casting long lines of light across the concrete floor. The air was thick with dust and the faint echo of distant construction — hammers, footsteps, metal clanging. Jack and Jeeny stood near a half-installed balcony, the city stretching beneath them like a giant blueprint drawn in motion and noise.

Host: The steel beams rose around them like skeletons of ideas not yet alive, and as the wind brushed past, it carried the scent of wet cement and possibility. Somewhere in that air, Ji Chang-wook’s words echoed softly, almost like a memory: “During high school, I wanted to work in architecture or engineering for no particular reason.”

Host: The sentence hung there — simple, innocent, and yet loaded with all the weight of a life searching for meaning before it’s found.

Jeeny: “It’s such a strange, almost beautiful thing to say — wanting something for no particular reason. It’s like admitting that your dreams once had no shape, just a feeling.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s just honesty. Most of us have no idea what we want at that age. We just pick something that sounds solid, something that feels like it could protect us from the chaos.”

Host: A gust of wind whistled through the steel frame, lifting a few blueprints that had been left on a table. One of them fluttered, folded, and drifted to the floor, as if to punctuate Jack’s words.

Jeeny: “You mean security, don’t you? That’s what you’re really talking about.”

Jack: “Of course. Architecture, engineering — those are anchors. Concrete, measurable, useful. Not the kind of dreams that disappoint you.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the point? To have dreams that can disappoint you? Isn’t that what makes them real?”

Jack: “That’s what makes them dangerous, Jeeny. Most people don’t survive their disappointments. They settle before they drown.”

Host: Jeeny walked toward the edge of the floor, her shadow stretching over the unfinished tiles. The sky was turning gold, reflecting in the glass of neighboring buildings. She spoke without turning back.

Jeeny: “But think about it, Jack — that moment when someone says they wanted to be something ‘for no particular reason.’ It’s not emptiness, it’s innocence. It’s the beginning of curiosity before the world teaches you to choose for the wrong reasons.”

Jack: “You give too much credit to randomness.”

Jeeny: “Do I? The universe is random, and yet here we are — breathing, thinking, building. Maybe that’s the truth of it. We start with no particular reason, and the reason comes later.”

Jack: “Or not at all. Maybe we just invent meaning to fill the silence.”

Host: Jack’s voice was steady, but something in his eyes betrayed him — a faint sadness, like a man who once believed in something grand, then watched it crumble.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve stopped believing, Jack.”

Jack: “No. I’ve stopped pretending. There’s a difference.”

Jeeny: “So you think purpose is an illusion?”

Jack: “Not an illusion — a construction. Like this building. It looks meaningful, but it’s just steel and math until someone moves in, lives, and gives it a story.”

Jeeny: “Exactly! And that’s what I mean. We start as structures, empty but full of potential. Ji’s line — that he wanted to be in architecture for no reason — it’s so human. We build dreams before we even understand what they hold.”

Jack: “Or maybe we just borrow dreams from others. From parents, teachers, society. It’s easier to imitate than to invent.”

Jeeny: “But even imitation can lead to truth. Think about Picasso — he learned to copy before he created. The copies were his bridge to his own voice.”

Jack: “So you’re saying that even the wrong reasons can lead to the right place.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes, yes. We stumble into who we are.”

Host: A small silence settled between them. The city roared below, filled with sirens, laughter, and the clatter of everyday existence. The sun had lowered, and the steel beams now glowed with a deep amber, like the spine of a beast half-formed but still alive.

Jack: “You ever wonder what you’d have been if life had gone differently?”

Jeeny: “Every day. But maybe the question isn’t what we’d be — it’s who we’re still becoming.”

Jack: “You think we never finish building?”

Jeeny: “Never. Even when we think we’re done, there’s always another floor, another wall to paint, another window to open.”

Host: Jack smiled, the kind of smile that flickered briefly before falling back into reflection.

Jack: “You make it sound like life is a construction site that never ends.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t it? We’re all under renovation, Jack — constantly tearing down, rebuilding, redesigning what we think we are.”

Jack: “Until the foundation gives out.”

Jeeny: “Or until the structure becomes strong enough to stand without explanation.”

Host: The wind picked up, rustling a loose sheet of plastic that flapped like a flag over the unfinished floor. Jeeny reached out, grabbing it before it could fly away, and laughed softly. The sound was light, like the memory of an old song.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe that’s what he meant — Ji Chang-wook. He wanted something structured, something stable, because maybe he was just trying to understand himself through design.”

Jack: “And he ended up becoming an actor — designing emotions instead of buildings.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The architecture just shifted — from concrete to soul.”

Jack: “So you think he didn’t change paths, he just changed materials.”

Jeeny: “Yes. We all do, in some way. What matters isn’t what we build, but that we keep building.”

Host: The light now was soft, golden, painting the edges of Jeeny’s face and the dust in the air. The city murmured beneath them — a living map of ambitions, failures, and dreams without reason.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what bothers me — the idea that we act before we understand. That we live by instinct, not intention.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what makes us human? The fact that we try first, then understand later?”

Jack: “You really believe there’s beauty in confusion?”

Jeeny: “Always. The mess is the art.”

Host: The daylight finally faded, and the first stars appeared above the unfinished roof. The workers below had gone, leaving only the sound of a lone radio playing somewhere in the distance. Jack and Jeeny stood in the silence, the city’s pulse still alive beneath them.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… maybe I did the same thing. Chose my path for no reason.”

Jeeny: “And do you regret it?”

Jack: “Sometimes. But other times… I think the lack of reason was the reason. The freedom of it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Not every beginning needs a plan, Jack. Some beginnings just need a moment of curiosity.”

Host: Jeeny looked up at the sky, where a faint crane light blinked against the darkness. It seemed like a heartbeat, a quiet signal that the work — and the dream — was still going.

Host: And as the night settled, the building around them stood — incomplete, imperfect, and full of possibility. Like them. Like everyone who ever wanted something “for no particular reason,” only to discover that reason later — in the act of living itself.