Enthusiasm is the best protection in any situation.

Host: The rain had just ceased, leaving a faint steam rising from the asphalt of the narrow street. The café windows still glistened with droplets, like memories unwilling to fade. Inside, the light was golden and dim, the kind that lingers just enough to soften every shadow. Jack sat near the window, his hands clasped around a half-empty cup of coffee, his gaze distant but sharp, as if scanning the world for something that no longer existed.

Across from him, Jeeny leaned forward, her fingers curled around a notebook, her eyes glowing with that unmistakable warmth that only hope can ignite. The air between them was still, a fragile pause before another collision of worlds.

Host: The evening hummed with the quiet rhythm of a city catching its breath. Then Jeeny spoke, her voice like the first note of a forgotten song.

Jeeny: “David Seabury once said, ‘Enthusiasm is the best protection in any situation. Wholeheartedness is contagious. Give yourself, if you wish to get others.’ Don’t you think that’s beautiful, Jack? That maybe, what truly protects us isn’t caution, but devotion?”

Jack: (smirks faintly) “Beautiful, sure. But true? I’m not so sure. Enthusiasm is like fire, Jeeny — it can warm a room, or it can burn it down. In this world, being too wholehearted just makes you an easy target.”

Host: A thin stream of smoke rose from Jack’s cigarette, curling like a thought he didn’t want to speak. Jeeny watched it dissolve, her brows furrowing slightly.

Jeeny: “So you’d rather guard yourself than give yourself? You talk as if caution were wisdom, but sometimes it’s just fear with better clothing.”

Jack: “And you talk as if naïveté were courage. Look around — people who throw themselves into things ‘wholeheartedly’ often get broken. Workers who believe in their company, only to be laid off overnight. Activists who believe in change, only to face prison or silence. Tell me, how does enthusiasm protect them?”

Jeeny: “Maybe it doesn’t protect them from pain, Jack. But it protects them from emptiness. Don’t you see? Wholeheartedness gives meaning — even if it hurts.”

Host: The rain began to murmur again against the window, a soft rhythm between their words. Jack’s eyes flicked toward the street, where reflections of neon bled into puddles like broken dreams.

Jack: “Meaning doesn’t feed a family, Jeeny. It doesn’t stop the wolves at the door. The world doesn’t reward your enthusiasm; it uses it until you’re empty, then moves on. The system runs on people who ‘give themselves’ — and burn out doing it.”

Jeeny: (leans closer, her tone sharpening) “But the system also changes because of those same people! Think of Rosa Parks — her act wasn’t cold calculation; it was wholehearted defiance. Or the doctors who faced COVID, still showing up when their own lives were at risk. They gave themselves — and in doing so, inspired millions.”

Jack: “And many of them died, Jeeny. That’s the reality you keep trying to romanticize. Enthusiasm didn’t save them; discipline and strategy might have.”

Host: The silence that followed was heavy, filled with the unsaid. Jeeny’s hands tightened around her notebook, and Jack’s cigarette burned low, a small ember trembling in the dark.

Jeeny: (quietly) “Do you ever wonder, Jack, what makes a life worth living? You chase safety so hard, but for what? To never be hurt? To never be changed?”

Jack: “To never be used, Jeeny. To never mistake manipulation for meaning.”

Host: The air between them shifted — something unseen, like a current under the surface. Jeeny’s voice softened, but her words still cut.

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who’s already been used, Jack. Maybe that’s why you can’t believe in enthusiasm anymore — because once, you did.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. He didn’t look at her, but the muscles near his eyes tensed, betraying the truth she had just touched.

Jack: “Once. I used to believe that if I worked hard enough, cared enough, gave everything, the world would notice. It didn’t. It just took. So now, I keep my heart out of it.”

Jeeny: “But that’s exactly why the world is so cold, Jack. Because too many people stop giving once they’ve been hurt. You think you’re protecting yourself, but maybe you’re just starving your own soul.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked, slow and steady, the only sound besides their breathing. The café had nearly emptied; only the two of them remained, like echoes from another time.

Jack: “You call it a soul, I call it foolishness. But I’ll admit — your kind of foolishness has a certain power. People follow it. They’re drawn to those who believe, like moths to flame.”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “Exactly. That’s what Seabury meant — wholeheartedness is contagious. It’s not about winning or surviving. It’s about igniting something in others. When someone truly cares, it spreads. Even if the world doesn’t repay it, the people who see it — they change.”

Host: Her voice had a quiet fervor, the kind that shifts the air around it. Jack’s expression softened, though his eyes still searched, as if testing every word she said for flaws.

Jack: “You think it’s that simple? Just give yourself and hope others will catch on? The world isn’t a campfire, Jeeny. It’s a storm.”

Jeeny: “Then be the fire in it.”

Host: The words hung there, almost visible, like smoke that refuses to disperse. Jack exhaled, long and low, his shoulders finally easing.

Jack: “You really think enthusiasm can protect someone?”

Jeeny: “Not from pain, no. But maybe from cynicism. From rotting on the inside while still breathing.”

Host: Jack looked at her then, really looked — the tiredness behind her fire, the fragility hidden under her hope. Something in him shifted, barely, like an old door finally opening after years of silence.

Jack: “You make it sound like faith.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. But not in gods or luck — in human energy. In the spark we give to each other. That’s the only currency that never devalues.”

Host: Outside, the rain had stopped again. The streetlights shimmered on the wet ground, casting long reflections like memories returning home. Inside the café, the tension melted into quiet — a kind of peace that only comes after understanding.

Jack: “You know… maybe I’ve been looking at it wrong. Maybe enthusiasm isn’t protection against the world. Maybe it’s protection against yourself — against becoming like the world.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Exactly. It’s the armor you build from the inside.”

Host: The rain outside caught the light, scattering it into a thousand tiny sparks, as if the night itself had decided to agree with her. Jack laughed, quietly — a sound more of release than humor.

Jack: “So what you’re saying is, I should stop being such a… cynical bastard.”

Jeeny: (grinning) “Maybe just… a slightly less cynical one.”

Host: Their laughter was soft, but it filled the room, warming the air that had moments ago been so tense. The world outside shimmered, alive again.

As they stood, Jeeny slipped her notebook into her bag, and Jack held the door open. The night breathed around them — fresh, wet, and strangely new.

Host: The camera would have pulled back then, framing them in the golden halo of a streetlight, their shadows stretching side by side into the unknown. Two souls — one fire, one stone — both finally warmed by the same flame.