Here we are, we're alone in the universe, there's no God, it just

Host: The night hung over the city like a sheet of cold iron, pressing down on the rooftops, the windows, and the souls beneath it. The streets below were almost empty, save for the distant hum of cars and the occasional echo of footsteps fading into darkness. On the roof of an old apartment building, two figures sat — Jack and Jeeny — wrapped in the soft glow of a single lamp, their breath visible in the chill air.

The city lights blinked like dying stars, and above them stretched a vast, indifferent sky — black, endless, unblinking.

Between them sat a bottle of whiskey, two glasses, and a half-burned cigarette in an ashtray that hadn’t been emptied in days.

Host: The quote had fallen from Jeeny’s lips a few minutes before — John Osborne’s weary cry: “Here we are, we’re alone in the universe, there’s no God… we’ve only ourselves.”
It lingered now, like a ghost refusing to leave, wrapping the silence in something heavy and unspoken.

Jack: “You know, that’s probably the first honest thing a playwright ever said. No God. No cosmic plan. Just accident. Sunlight, rock, time — and here we are. A bunch of atoms trying to make sense of noise.”

Jeeny: “You call it noise. I call it the echo of something greater — even if it’s only in us. Maybe there’s no God, Jack. But there’s still meaning. There has to be.”

Host: The lamp light flickered, painting Jeeny’s face in trembling shades of gold and shadow. Her eyes — deep, brown, and alive — held that same defiance he both admired and feared. Jack leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his grey eyes sharp as steel.

Jack: “Meaning’s just a story we tell ourselves so we don’t lose our minds. Look at it — the wars, the diseases, the greed. If there were meaning, it wouldn’t look like this. You don’t design a universe like that unless you’re a sadist.”

Jeeny: “Or unless you want the creatures in it to choose what they become. To create their own meaning, instead of having it handed down from some cosmic throne.”

Jack: “That’s convenient, isn’t it? A God who loves us so much He leaves us alone in the void.”

Jeeny: “Maybe He’s not gone. Maybe He’s the space between us — the kindness we show, the mercy we create, the love we give even when everything says not to.”

Host: A gust of wind swept across the roof, rattling an old antenna, scattering a few ash flakes into the air. Jack didn’t move. He just watched them drift away like tiny, burning souls.

Jack: “You sound like a poet who’s afraid of the dark.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like a cynic who’s afraid of the light.”

Jack: “Afraid? No. I just learned to stop expecting a pattern in chaos. We’re biological accidents, Jeeny. A chemical fluke on a piece of spinning dust. The sunlight hits the rock, and the rock starts thinking about itself. That’s all we are.”

Jeeny: “Then how do you explain the fact that we care? That we fall in love, that we sacrifice, that we grieve? If we’re just accidents, why does it hurt so much to lose someone?”

Jack: “Because pain is evolution’s trick to keep us alive. You don’t protect what doesn’t hurt. You don’t hold on to what doesn’t matter. Love, grief — they’re just biological survival codes.”

Jeeny: “You reduce everything to biology. But biology doesn’t write music. It doesn’t paint cathedrals or hold another person’s hand through the night. That’s not survival, Jack. That’s spirit.”

Host: The city hum below grew softer, distant, as if the world itself had stopped to listen. The stars, few and faint through the haze, seemed to blink in weary agreement or maybe indifference.

Jack’s laugh was low and cracked, the kind that carried more exhaustion than joy.

Jack: “Spirit? That’s just chemistry pretending to be poetry.”

Jeeny: “Then why does your voice shake when you say it?”

Host: Jack went still. His hands, once steady, now trembled against the edge of the table. He looked away, out at the city, where a single neon sign flickered the word OPEN into the night — a lie no one cared to correct.

Jack: “Because sometimes even the ones who don’t believe… wish they could.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe belief isn’t about God. Maybe it’s about refusing to let the dark have the last word.”

Host: The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was alive — filled with all the things they didn’t dare say. The wind shifted again, colder now, carrying the faint smell of rain.

Jeeny stood, her small frame outlined against the skyline, her hair fluttering like a black flame.

Jeeny: “You keep saying we’re alone. But look —”
(She pointed to the windows glowing across the city, each one a tiny universe of its own.)
“Every light you see out there is someone trying. Someone still hoping. Maybe there’s no God above, but there’s us. That’s not nothing.”

Jack: “And if we fail? If we turn on each other again — like we always do?”

Jeeny: “Then we start again. That’s what makes us human. We fall, we break, we heal. That’s our creation myth.”

Jack: “You think we’re gods, then?”

Jeeny: “No. Just the children of chaos trying to make something beautiful out of the wreckage.”

Host: Her words hung between them like a fragile bridge, shimmering in the cold light. Jack rose, slowly, his eyes reflecting the faintest trace of warmth.

He looked at her — really looked at her — as if for the first time. The lines of fatigue on his face, the faint scar on his cheek, softened.

Jack: “You always make it sound like it’s worth it. Like all this madness… matters.”

Jeeny: “It does. Because even if there’s no one watching, we’re still here — still choosing to care, to forgive, to try. And that choice is everything.”

Host: The lamp flickered once more and died. The roof was now lit only by the faint glow of the rising moon. The city stretched below — imperfect, wounded, alive.

Jack took a long breath, the kind that hurts before it heals.

Jack: “So, Jeeny… if the universe really doesn’t care, maybe the best thing we can do… is to care twice as much.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Maybe that’s the only way we fight the void — not with prayers, but with presence.”

Host: A soft wind passed between them, carrying away the smoke, the fear, the unspoken loneliness of two souls clinging to meaning on a cold, spinning rock.

Below, the city breathed. Somewhere, a child laughed, a train groaned, a dog barked — small, human sounds pushing back against an infinite silence.

Jeeny smiled faintly, tucking her hair behind her ear, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jeeny: “We’ve only got ourselves, Jack. But maybe… that’s enough.”

Host: He didn’t answer. He just watched her, then lifted his glass — a silent toast to the emptiness, the light, and everything between.

The moonlight fell over their faces, and for a fleeting moment, it seemed to bless them — two tiny beacons in a vast, godless universe, holding fast to the one truth left to them:
That even in the absence of God, the act of loving, of caring, of simply being together — was the closest thing to divine.