Expect the best, Prepare for the worst.

Host: The train station pulsed with a kind of restless energy — that perfect chaos of humanity caught between departures and arrivals. Steam rose from beneath the old iron tracks, twisting through the cold morning air like the ghosts of yesterday’s dreams. The loudspeaker crackled intermittently, announcing destinations that half the crowd seemed to ignore.

Jack sat on a wooden bench, suitcase at his feet, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. His eyes were sharp, but tired — the eyes of a man who’s learned to read the world the way some read maps: carefully, skeptically, knowing that every road hides a detour.

Jeeny stood near the edge of the platform, her scarf fluttering in the morning wind, watching the incoming train as it carved through the fog. There was something luminous about her — the way she held herself, the quiet strength of someone who had learned to expect storms and still leave the door unlocked for sunshine.

Jeeny: (without turning around) “Muhammad Ali Jinnah once said, ‘Expect the best. Prepare for the worst.’”

(She looked over her shoulder, smiling faintly.) “That feels like the perfect philosophy for this platform, doesn’t it? Everyone here — hoping for arrival, bracing for delay.”

Jack: (dryly) “Or derailment.”

Jeeny: (laughing softly) “Always the optimist.”

Jack: (grinning, eyes still on the tracks) “I’m not pessimistic, Jeeny. I’m just a realist. You don’t survive in this world expecting miracles.”

Jeeny: “No, but you survive longer if you’re open to them.”

Host: The whistle of a train cut through the morning air — sharp, clean, inevitable. The crowd stirred. Someone shouted a goodbye, another whispered a prayer. The world moved forward, inch by inch, heartbeat by heartbeat.

Jack: (leaning back) “You know what that quote really means? It’s not about hope. It’s about balance. Expectation and preparation — one keeps you dreaming, the other keeps you standing when the dream falls apart.”

Jeeny: “And you think people can live in that middle ground forever?”

Jack: “Not forever. But it’s the only place where sanity survives.”

Host: A mother lifted her child onto the train, the boy’s laughter rising above the noise like a brief hymn of innocence. Jeeny watched, her expression softening.

Jeeny: “When I was a kid, my mother used to say something similar — ‘Hope feeds the heart, but fear keeps it beating.’ I used to hate it. Thought it was cynical. Now... I think she just meant survival has two languages.”

Jack: “And both are worth learning.”

Jeeny: (turning toward him) “Do you really live that way? Always preparing for the worst?”

Jack: (after a pause) “I have to. The world’s never been gentle with me when I wasn’t.”

Jeeny: “And has that made it gentler?”

Jack: (half-smiling) “No. But it’s made me stronger.”

Host: The train roared closer, the air trembling around them. People clutched their coats tighter, gathered their bags, hearts syncing to the rhythm of machinery and momentum.

Jeeny moved closer to Jack, her voice low but unwavering.

Jeeny: “Strength isn’t everything, Jack. Sometimes, preparation becomes another form of fear. You plan so much for what could go wrong that you forget how to let anything go right.”

Jack: (quietly) “You sound like someone who’s lost before and still bets again.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Because losing isn’t failure. It’s rehearsal for grace.”

Host: The words settled between them, light and heavy all at once. The train screeched to a stop, steam enveloping the platform in a thick cloud of white. Through it, the faint glow of red lights pulsed, like the heartbeat of the moment itself.

Jack: “You ever think Jinnah wasn’t talking about the world at all? Maybe he was talking about faith — expect the best from humanity, prepare for its flaws.”

Jeeny: “Or from ourselves. Expect the best version of who we could be, but prepare for the worst of who we still are.”

Jack: (nodding) “That’s... truer than I want it to be.”

Host: The doors opened. The sound of footsteps, suitcases, chatter — all of it became a single, familiar rhythm of motion and meaning. Jeeny stepped closer to the edge, her reflection flickering across the train’s polished steel.

Jeeny: (softly) “Do you ever wonder, Jack — what expecting the best actually looks like? I think it’s not optimism. It’s courage. To hope when it’s easier not to.”

Jack: (watching her) “And preparing for the worst?”

Jeeny: “That’s not fear. It’s faith — that even if the worst comes, you’ll still find a way through.”

Host: The wind from the open doors tousled her hair, the sound of movement blending into the pulse of the world. Jack looked at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he stood.

Jack: (quietly) “So maybe Jinnah wasn’t warning us. Maybe he was reassuring us. That life doesn’t need guarantees — just readiness and heart.”

Jeeny: (meeting his gaze) “Exactly. Because expecting the best isn’t naïve — it’s brave.”

Jack: “And preparing for the worst isn’t cynical — it’s wise.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “There it is. Balance.”

Host: The final whistle blew. The doors began to close, the gap between decision and hesitation narrowing with each passing second. Jack looked at the departing train, then back at her — that eternal moment between staying and leaving, safety and risk.

Jeeny: (gently) “So... what are you expecting right now?”

Jack: (after a long pause, softly) “That whatever comes next... I’ll meet it halfway.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Then you’re already prepared.”

Host: The train pulled away, its wheels singing against the tracks, fading into the distance until only the echo remained — a metallic lullaby for the brave and uncertain. The platform quieted again, but something in the air had changed — lighter, clearer, more forgiving.

Jack and Jeeny stood in the silence that followed — two souls suspended between past and future, faith and foresight. The morning light broke through the fog at last, soft and gold, falling across their faces like the promise of something still possible.

And as the city stirred awake, the lesson lingered — not carved in stone, but whispered in the hum of every passing train:

To expect the best is to honor hope,
to prepare for the worst is to respect reality,
and to live between the two —
that’s the quiet art of resilience.