For the past 33 years, I have looked in the mirror every morning

Host: The morning light cut through the tall windows of the small loft studio, scattering across blueprints, sketches, and empty coffee cups. Dust drifted in golden shafts, each particle moving slowly — a quiet rebellion against the rush of the world outside.

A mirror stood against the far wall — old, with flecks of silver worn away at the edges. Its surface caught the sunlight and fractured it, as if it too were tired of reflecting only what was given.

Jack sat at the desk, head bowed over his laptop, his fingers frozen above the keyboard. His reflection — half-lit, half-shadow — stared back from the black glass of the screen.

Across from him, Jeeny leaned on the windowsill, her hair falling loose over her shoulder, her gaze somewhere between the skyline and her own thoughts.

Jeeny: “Steve Jobs once said, ‘For the past 33 years, I have looked in the mirror every morning and asked myself: If today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am about to do today? And whenever the answer has been no for too many days in a row, I know I need to change something.’”

Jack looked up, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

Jack: “A man who built empires still asking himself what’s worth doing. That’s… inconveniently human.”

Jeeny: “It’s brutally honest. We all chase longevity, but he asked about meaning. Big difference.”

Host: A breeze stirred the papers on the desk, scattering a few onto the floor. The rustle filled the silence like soft applause from invisible witnesses.

Jack: “You think it’s possible to live like that — every day as if it’s your last?”

Jeeny: “Not literally. You’d burn out. But maybe it’s not about dramatics — it’s about clarity. The mirror question strips you bare.”

Jack: “And if you don’t like what you see?”

Jeeny: “Then change what’s behind the reflection, not the mirror.”

Host: The sunlight crept higher, drawing a slow halo across her face. Jack turned toward the mirror by the wall, his own reflection faint in the bright glare.

Jack: “I used to love mornings. They used to mean beginnings. Now they just feel like continuations of things I never finished.”

Jeeny: “That’s because you stopped checking in.”

Jack: “Checking in?”

Jeeny: “With yourself. You wake up, but you don’t arrive. You just resume.”

Host: Jack rubbed his eyes and stood, walking over to the mirror. His reflection looked back, tired, expectant, real.

Jack: “You ever ask yourself that question?”

Jeeny: “Every day. Sometimes I lie. Sometimes I don’t.”

Jack: “You lie to yourself?”

Jeeny: “We all do. The truth’s uncomfortable. But the lie — the lie feels survivable.”

Jack: “So what’s your ratio?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “How many ‘No’s’ in a row before you change something?”

Jeeny: “Two.”

Jack: “Two?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Any longer, and the soul starts decaying quietly — pretending it’s resting.”

Host: A long pause. The sound of the city drifted in — car horns, footsteps, laughter echoing off distant glass. The world moved on, indifferent.

Jack: “You think Jobs really meant it? You think he lived every day like it was his last?”

Jeeny: “I think he tried. And that’s all any of us can do. The question isn’t meant to be answered — it’s meant to haunt you into honesty.”

Jack: “Haunt you?”

Jeeny: “Yes. A good question should.”

Host: Jack chuckled softly, leaning against the mirror now. His reflection shifted beside Jeeny’s — two blurred figures framed in morning light.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? We all love to quote people like him, but we rarely do what they did — we just admire the courage from a safe distance.”

Jeeny: “Because we mistake admiration for action. It’s easier to worship the brave than to become them.”

Jack: “So you’re saying we build statues to avoid the work of change.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s idolatry disguised as inspiration.”

Host: The mirror caught a glint of sunlight again, flaring briefly before dimming as a cloud passed. The light fell across Jack’s hands — ink-stained, trembling slightly — hands that had built things, written things, lost things.

Jack: “You ever get scared of how fast everything moves? How quickly today becomes yesterday?”

Jeeny: “All the time. That’s why I like his question. It slows the clock down. Makes time personal again.”

Jack: “You mean it brings mortality into focus.”

Jeeny: “No. It brings meaning into focus. Mortality’s the easy part — it’s guaranteed. Meaning’s the fight.”

Host: A church bell rang somewhere in the distance, soft and melancholic, cutting through the noise like a reminder.

Jack: “If today were my last day…” — he paused, his voice catching — “I wouldn’t be here.”

Jeeny: “Then where would you be?”

Jack: “By the sea. Watching the tide come in. Listening instead of speaking.”

Jeeny: “And what’s stopping you?”

Jack: “Responsibility.”

Jeeny: “Or fear?”

Jack: “Maybe both.”

Jeeny: “Fear of leaving or of being left?”

Jack: “Of admitting that the life I built doesn’t fit anymore.”

Host: The words hung in the air, raw and trembling. Jeeny walked over, standing beside him. Together they stared into the mirror — not at their reflections, but through them.

Jeeny: “That’s what Jobs was talking about. The mirror isn’t there to judge you. It’s there to remind you — time is finite, but courage can be renewed daily.”

Jack: “So every morning’s a negotiation between who we are and who we refuse to remain.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The cloud drifted away, and sunlight poured fully into the room again — warm, forgiving, alive. Jeeny smiled faintly, almost to herself.

Jeeny: “You know what I think?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “Most people wait for death to ask if they’ve lived right. But the mirror asks that question every day. It’s just that most of us look away.”

Jack: “And when we finally look?”

Jeeny: “We start to live.”

Host: The two of them stood there in silence, their faces lit by the morning. Outside, the city began its daily performance — horns, footsteps, laughter, life in motion. Inside, the air held something still — something sacred.

The camera would have pulled back then — showing the mirror framed by the golden light, two reflections standing side by side, the world sprawling endlessly behind them.

And as the image faded to white, Steve Jobs’s words would echo — no longer about death, but about the discipline of awakening:

Every morning is a question.
The mirror doesn’t ask if you will die — it asks if you are truly alive.
And the day you answer “Yes” is the first day you stop surviving and start living.