Envy is the art of counting the other fellow's blessings instead

Host: The evening was dressed in a quiet kind of melancholy, the kind that lingers between sunset and darkness. The city lights flickered to life one by one, yellow and patient, like tired souls remembering how to glow. A faint rain had fallen earlier, and now the streets reflected the world upside down — neon signs, headlights, and lonely faces gliding past in blurred reflections.

Inside a small bistro, with cigarette smoke curling lazily through the air and the distant hum of jazz, Jack sat with a glass of whiskey untouched before him. His grey eyes stared out the window, though he wasn’t seeing the city — only what he thought he’d lost.

Across from him, Jeeny sat with a cup of tea, steam rising like the last warm thought of a fading day. She watched him quietly, as if waiting for his heart to open first.

Jeeny: (softly) “You’ve been quiet all evening. Even quieter than usual. What’s clawing at you, Jack?”

Jack: (gruffly, eyes still on the glass) “Nothing worth saying out loud.”

Jeeny: “Then why do you look like you’re carrying a weight no one else can see?”

Jack: (half-smiles, bitter) “Maybe because I am. I ran into Lucas tonight. You remember — the guy from our old class?”

Jeeny: “The one who started that tech company?”

Jack: (nods) “Yeah. Turns out it’s not just a company now. It’s a whole empire. He showed up in a suit that looked like it was stitched out of arrogance. Drove off in something that probably costs more than my apartment.”

Jeeny: “And that bothers you?”

Jack: “No.” (a pause, then quietly) “Yes.”

Host: The rain began again, just enough to drum lightly against the windowpane — a rhythmic reminder that the world keeps moving, even when hearts stall.

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) “Harold Coffin once said, ‘Envy is the art of counting the other fellow’s blessings instead of your own.’ Maybe you’ve been doing a little too much counting lately.”

Jack: (snorts) “Yeah? Well, maybe my column just doesn’t add up. Some people win big. Others… just keep trying not to drown.”

Jeeny: “That’s because you’re using someone else’s math.”

Jack: “You mean I should pretend I don’t see the difference? He’s living in a skyline apartment, and I’m still fixing leaks in mine. He’s got his name on buildings, I’ve got mine on overdue bills.”

Jeeny: “And yet, here you are — sitting in this café, breathing, creating, thinking, feeling. You’ve still got stories in your head, Jack. Do you think Lucas even dreams anymore?”

Host: The light from the street bent through the rain, cutting across Jack’s face. His jaw tightened, but there was a glint — not anger, something more like realization struggling to surface.

Jack: (quietly) “You always make it sound noble, Jeeny. Like struggle is poetry. But envy isn’t about greed — it’s about comparison. You look at someone and suddenly your own life looks smaller.”

Jeeny: “Only if you forget how much of it is invisible to them. You see his wealth — he probably sees your freedom.”

Jack: “Freedom doesn’t pay the bills.”

Jeeny: (soft laugh) “No, but neither does envy.”

Host: The jazz tune changed — slower now, the kind that dripped like honey through the air. A waiter passed, the clink of glasses marking the rhythm of a city trying to forget itself.

Jack: (leans back, staring upward) “You know what the worst part is? It’s not wanting what he has. It’s the feeling that I should’ve had it too. Like somewhere along the line, I made a wrong turn.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe you just took a different road — one that doesn’t end at a penthouse but somewhere quieter, somewhere real.”

Jack: “You say that like it’s a virtue. But maybe I wanted the noise. The spotlight. The validation that says: you made it.”

Jeeny: (softly but firmly) “Made it where, Jack? To what? The top isn’t a place — it’s a feeling. And it’s temporary. You think Lucas doesn’t look over his shoulder at someone richer, younger, faster? Envy’s a ladder with no top rung. You just climb until you forget what ground feels like.”

Host: The bulb above them flickered, dimmed, then steadied — like a heartbeat refusing to give up. Jack exhaled, slow, his breath fogging the rim of his glass.

Jack: “You talk like you’ve never envied anyone.”

Jeeny: (smiles) “Of course I have. We all do. But envy is like salt — a little brings flavor, too much poisons everything.”

Jack: “And what’s the cure?”

Jeeny: “Gratitude. Real, brutal gratitude — the kind that looks at a half-empty glass and says, at least it’s not broken.”

Jack: (chuckles dryly) “You and your metaphors.”

Jeeny: “It’s the only language that doesn’t lie.”

Host: A gust of wind swept past, rattling the door, and for a moment, both of them just listened to the sound of the rain, heavy now, relentless. It filled the room with a strange kind of peace — the kind that only comes when words run out.

Jack: (softly) “You know… I used to look at my father the same way I look at Lucas. He was just a mechanic — hands always dirty, clothes smelling like oil. And I’d see my friends’ dads, men in suits, in offices, with shiny watches. I used to think he was small.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: (swallows hard) “Now I realize he built something none of them could. He built steadiness. He never envied anyone — not once. Maybe he couldn’t afford to.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Maybe he was rich in ways you couldn’t count.”

Host: The rain eased, and the city lights outside sharpened again — clear, deliberate, alive. The reflections on the wet pavement looked almost like stained glass, fragments of color arranged by accident into something sacred.

Jeeny: (after a pause) “You know, envy and admiration start from the same place — the heart sees beauty and wants to touch it. But envy clenches the hand; admiration opens it.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “So maybe I’ve been walking around with a fist for too long.”

Jeeny: “Then unclench it. Count what’s yours for once — your time, your talent, your stubbornness, your mistakes, your heart. Every one of those is a blessing. They just don’t come with logos.”

Host: Jack’s gaze softened. The tension in his shoulders melted a little. The whiskey glass remained untouched, but something else had burned away — the invisible bitterness that had been simmering all night.

Jack: (quietly) “You make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not simple. It’s daily work. Gratitude is like breathing — you forget, and you choke.”

Jack: (smiles faintly) “Maybe I’ve been holding my breath for years.”

Jeeny: (leans forward, smiling) “Then exhale, Jack. There’s enough air for both of us.”

Host: Outside, the rain stopped completely. The streetlights glowed brighter, their reflections now still and perfect on the wet ground. Jeeny’s eyes caught the light, warm and steady.

For the first time in hours, Jack laughed — not a loud one, but real, the kind that comes from somewhere deep and long-forgotten.

Host: The city sighed, the music softened, and two friends sat beneath the quiet hum of the night, counting — not wealth, not success, not losses — but moments.

And in that small, flickering corner of the world, envy dissolved — replaced by something rarer and infinitely brighter: the art of finally counting one’s own blessings.