Everyone wishes that the man whom he fears would perish.

Host: The city was wrapped in fog, that heavy, ghost-colored veil that turns even neon into memory. A single streetlamp hummed outside a near-empty diner, its light pooling like a halo on cracked asphalt. Inside, the smell of burnt coffee and old vinyl hung in the air. The clock above the counter ticked without mercy — each second a small hammer breaking silence into pieces.

Jack sat at the corner booth, his grey eyes fixed on the steam curling from his cup. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her tea without drinking it, her fingers trembling slightly against the spoon. Between them lay a thin newspaper, headline bold and merciless: “Power Broker Found Dead in Office Tower.”

The quote had been the first thing Jeeny said when she entered.
"Everyone wishes that the man whom he fears would perish." — Ovid.

Now, it lingered in the air like a curse neither could shake.

Jeeny: “You can feel it, can’t you? That quiet satisfaction people pretend they don’t have — when someone powerful finally falls.”

Jack: “I can feel it, yeah. But I don’t buy it. People don’t wish death, Jeeny. They wish safety. There’s a difference.”

Host: The rain began again, tapping against the diner’s windows in slow, deliberate rhythm. Jeeny looked up at the sound, her eyes dark, her voice low.

Jeeny: “You think fear and hate are so easily separated? That we can fear someone — a man, a leader, a tyrant — and not secretly crave his disappearance?”

Jack: “Craving isn’t wishing. Wishing isn’t doing. That’s what keeps us civilized — the space between the thought and the act.”

Jeeny: “Civilized?” She laughed softly. “Jack, history’s full of people who turned that wish into law. Caesar, Lincoln, Gandhi — every man who commanded fear died the way fear demanded: violently.”

Jack: “You’re talking about assassins, not humanity.”

Jeeny: “But assassins are just humanity without masks.”

Host: Her words landed like raindrops against metal — sharp, echoing, impossible to ignore. Jack’s jaw tightened. The light caught the faint lines around his eyes, the kind that come from years of watching hope disappoint itself.

Jack: “You think it’s human nature to want death?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. I think it’s human nature to want release. Fear makes us prisoners — and the mind always dreams of breaking free. When Ovid said that, he wasn’t being cruel. He was being honest.”

Jack: “Honesty’s a dangerous excuse. Every tyrant thinks he’s being honest when he names his enemies.”

Jeeny: “And every coward thinks he’s righteous when he calls his silence peace.”

Host: The diner’s door creaked open, letting in a burst of cold wind and the faint echo of traffic outside. Neither of them turned. The moment had folded in on itself — two minds caught between truth and morality, between civilization and instinct.

Jeeny: “You remember that protest last year? The one where they chanted for the minister to resign? You said it yourself — you felt something dark in the crowd. Not anger. Not justice. Something older.”

Jack: “I said it felt primal. But primal doesn’t mean right.”

Jeeny: “No. But it means real.”

Host: Jack’s fingers tightened around his coffee cup until it trembled. The steam rose like a slow confession between them.

Jack: “You scare me when you talk like this.”

Jeeny: “Good. Then maybe you understand the quote.”

Host: Her eyes glimmered in the low fluorescent light, a fragile mix of sorrow and fire. The kind of look that belongs to people who’ve seen too much truth and too little mercy.

Jeeny: “Every fear breeds its shadow. We pretend to respect power, but what we really do is tolerate it — until it cracks. And then, deep down, we celebrate. Every empire’s fall is a party thrown by the oppressed.”

Jack: “And every revolution becomes a new empire. So what’s the point?”

Jeeny: “The point is — people will always hate what reminds them of their own weakness. The powerful man is a mirror, Jack. He reflects our smallness. And when that reflection dies, so does the shame.”

Host: The rain grew harder now, like applause from unseen hands. The light flickered. Outside, a taxi splashed through a puddle, its headlights slicing the fog.

Jack: “You’re romanticizing vengeance.”

Jeeny: “No. I’m admitting it.”

Jack: “You think you’d feel peace if someone you feared disappeared?”

Jeeny: “No. But I’d feel air again.”

Host: A long silence stretched between them, heavy as wet cloth. Jack leaned back, his cigarette forgotten. His voice, when it came, was softer.

Jack: “I’ve feared people too — bosses, leaders, even lovers. But wishing them gone… it always left me emptier. Because it means they owned a part of you, even in death.”

Jeeny: “Maybe emptiness is the price of freedom. You can’t carry fear and peace in the same heart.”

Jack: “But you can’t build peace on someone’s grave either.”

Jeeny: “Tell that to every nation that’s ever celebrated a dictator’s fall.”

Host: The clock ticked louder now, its steady rhythm clashing with the chaos outside. The neon sign flickered again, the word “OPEN” pulsing like a heartbeat refusing to stop.

Jack: “So that’s your truth, huh? That humanity’s driven not by love or progress — but by envy and fear?”

Jeeny: “Not driven — haunted. Fear is the shadow that follows power. Always has been. Every time we worship someone, we start timing how long before they fall.”

Host: The rain softened, its rhythm turning gentle again, almost mournful. The storm had said what it came to say.

Jack: “You talk like power itself is the sin.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Because it tempts people to stop being human. And the rest of us — we watch, we fear, we fantasize about balance returning. Ovid saw it — the heart’s silent arithmetic. We pray for safety, and sometimes that prayer wears the face of another’s death.”

Jack: “That’s dark.”

Jeeny: “That’s truth.”

Host: The diner light above them buzzed, dimmed, then brightened again — as if wrestling with its own exhaustion.

Jack: “You really think we can’t evolve past that?”

Jeeny: “We can learn to hide it better. That’s all. Evolution doesn’t erase instinct — it just teaches it to wear a tie.”

Host: A faint smile crossed Jack’s lips — half bitterness, half admiration.

Jack: “You’d make a terrifying philosopher, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “And you’d make a tragic optimist.”

Host: They both laughed, quietly, like people too aware of their own contradictions. The tension eased — not dissolved, but softened. Jeeny reached across the table, tapping the newspaper with one finger.

Jeeny: “You see this headline? The man in this story — people feared him. He built his walls high, crushed dissent, made laws to silence voices. Now he’s gone. And the world’s pretending to mourn. But tomorrow, the streets will fill with relief. Not joy — relief.”

Jack: “And what replaces him?”

Jeeny: “Another man, another fear.”

Host: The rain stopped completely, leaving only the faint sound of distant thunder — the kind that lingers long after the storm has passed. Jack stared at the window, where the city’s lights blurred into a hazy constellation of colors.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what Ovid really meant — not that we want our fears to die, but that we can’t bear to see them live forever.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Fear demands an ending. Even if it’s not merciful.”

Host: The clock struck midnight. Outside, the fog began to lift, revealing faint outlines of street signs, cars, and trees dripping with rain.

Jack exhaled slowly. Jeeny smiled faintly. Between them, the newspaper headline glowed under the diner light — a small obituary for power itself.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s all history really is — the story of our fears, dying one by one.”

Jack: “And being reborn in someone else’s shadow.”

Host: The light above flickered once more, then steadied. The diner fell into a deep, reflective stillness. Outside, the city breathed again — quieter, emptier, momentarily free.

And in that silence, Ovid’s ancient whisper lingered —
a truth both cruel and tender:
that the heart’s wish for peace often comes dressed in the death of what it fears.