Having been built in the fashion I was as a child - created and

Host: The city was half-asleep — that peculiar hour before dawn when the streets whisper in half-light and even the neon seems tired of glowing. Inside a small, all-night diner off the Brooklyn Bridge, the clock ticked too loudly. Steam rose from two cups of coffee, curling like ghosts between Jack and Jeeny.
The rain outside made shadows dance on the windowpane, while a radio hummed faintly — something melancholic, like a song that never found its chorus.

Jack sat slouched, fingers wrapped around his mug, his eyes distant, cold with memory. Jeeny watched him quietly, her hands clasped together, her expression soft but watchful.

Host: The air between them was thick with unsaid things. There was something about the hour — about that stillness — that made people confess truths they usually ran from.

Jeeny: “You know, I read something today… by Alissa Quart.” She spoke slowly, almost as if afraid of breaking the stillness. “She said — ‘Having been built in the fashion I was as a child — created and then deflated — has left me with a distinct feeling of failure. Because I did not live up to my precocity, I experience it to be like a cross between a has-been and a never-was.’”
She paused, tracing the rim of her cup. “I can’t stop thinking about that. That idea of being both — a has-been and a never-was.”

Jack: “Sounds like the definition of adulthood.” He smirked faintly, though his eyes stayed fixed on the rain. “Every kid who was ever called ‘gifted’ knows that feeling. You get built up, like a parade balloon, and one day — pfft — someone lets go of the string.”

Host: His voice was low, almost bitter. The steam rose between them like fog, dimming their faces, blurring their reflections in the window glass.

Jeeny: “It’s cruel, isn’t it? How society loves prodigies — until they grow up. Then you’re not special anymore, just another person who failed to become a miracle.”

Jack: “No one can live as a miracle forever. That’s the lie. You’re born with a spark, and everyone around you builds a shrine around it — your teachers, your parents, the strangers who tell you you’re ‘different.’ But a spark isn’t meant to burn forever. It’s meant to start something else.”

Jeeny: “But what if it doesn’t start anything? What if the spark just dies out — and all that’s left is smoke?”

Host: The rain drummed harder against the glass now. The city lights flickered in the puddles outside, like tiny, broken mirrors. Jack lifted his cup, his hands trembling slightly, though he hid it well.

Jack: “Then maybe it means you were chasing the wrong fire. You know what’s funny? Everyone told me I’d be something great — my mom used to say I’d ‘change the world.’ I guess I did — just not in the way she imagined. I change the world one invoice at a time, selling construction contracts.”

Jeeny: “That’s not failure, Jack.”

Jack: “It is when you were supposed to be a poet.” He laughed, short and bitter. “When you were the kid who wrote essays that teachers photocopied for inspiration. When every adult in your life said, ‘You’re destined for something big,’ and now the only thing you’re destined for is another tax form.”

Host: His laugh was sharp — like glass cracking in cold air. Jeeny winced. She looked down, her eyes dark, full of something deeper than pity — empathy mixed with recognition.

Jeeny: “Maybe precocity isn’t a gift. Maybe it’s a trap. You get addicted to praise before you even understand who you are. You grow up chasing applause, not purpose.”

Jack: “And when the applause stops, you think you disappeared with it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.” She leaned forward, her voice softer now. “It’s like being a ghost in your own timeline. You keep comparing everything you do to a twelve-year-old version of yourself — the version that everyone worshipped. But that kid didn’t know how cruel the world could be.”

Host: The neon sign outside sputtered — the word “OPEN” flickered, letters glowing and dying in rhythm. The clock ticked louder. Somewhere in the kitchen, a fryer hissed.

Jack: “You think it’s about the world being cruel? I think it’s about expectations. The world loves the idea of talent — as long as it’s tidy. But when talent turns into anxiety, or burnout, or depression — they call it weakness.”

Jeeny: “And yet, those are the things that make us human.”

Jack: “Human, sure. But not successful.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe success isn’t the measure. Maybe staying alive after your own myth collapses is the real victory.”

Host: Jack’s eyes flicked up at her. Something in them shifted — like a door opening halfway. The rain had softened now, more like a memory than a storm.

Jack: “You talk like survival is enough.”

Jeeny: “It has to be, sometimes. Because not everyone gets to reinvent themselves. Some of us just have to learn how to live without the prophecy.”

Jack: “Without the prophecy…” He repeated the phrase, tasting it like a foreign language. “That’s good. But tell me, Jeeny — do you ever miss it? The feeling of being extraordinary?”

Jeeny: “Every day.”
Her eyes shimmered in the low light. “But I also remember how lonely it was. How terrifying. When you’re a child and everyone tells you you’re destined for greatness, you stop being allowed to fail. You stop being allowed to be ordinary. And that’s not living — that’s performing.”

Jack: “So what, we should celebrate mediocrity now?”

Jeeny: “No. We should celebrate authenticity. The courage to be real after everyone tried to script your life for you. Look at child stars, prodigy musicians, even young activists — so many of them collapse because they were turned into symbols before they were even people.”

Host: The sound of rain faded. The sky beyond the diner’s windows began to pale, just slightly — the first sign of morning breaking. The light that crept in was cold and forgiving, like mercy after confession.

Jack: “You make it sound poetic. But it still feels like failure.”

Jeeny: “Maybe failure is just another word for transformation. What if we’ve outgrown the version of ourselves the world made? Isn’t that evolution?”

Jack: “Maybe. But you don’t evolve without mourning what you lose.”

Jeeny: “No. You don’t.” Her voice trembled. “But sometimes what you lose isn’t really you — it’s the dream other people built around you.”

Host: Jeeny looked at Jack, and for a brief moment, the silence between them turned sacred — like a shared secret of survival. The neon light flickered once more, bathing their faces in a soft, pinkish glow.

Jack: “So what do we do with that ghost — the prodigy we used to be?”

Jeeny: “We let it walk beside us. Not haunt us. Remember it kindly, but stop worshipping it. You can’t spend your whole life apologizing to your past self.”

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. It’s like forgiving a god that never existed.”

Host: The clock struck five. Outside, the sky cracked open into faint gold, stretching across the wet streets. The rain had stopped. Jack turned to the window, watching the light rise over the bridge. His reflection looked older, quieter — but also lighter somehow.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe being a has-been and a never-was isn’t the worst thing. At least it means we were something once… and maybe we could be again.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.” She smiled faintly. “Because the middle space — between who we were and who we might be — that’s where truth lives. That’s where people grow.”

Host: The sunlight hit the diners’ window, scattering over the table, turning the cold coffee into small cups of gold. Jack looked at Jeeny and smiled for the first time that night — not out of irony, but understanding.

The camera lingered on their faces — tired, scarred, but still alive. Outside, the city began to stir, the noise of morning rising.

And as the first true light filled the room, the ghosts of their former selves seemed to fade, leaving behind only two people — no longer prodigies, no longer failures — just human, and still becoming.