I do not believe that government should be in the business of

Host: The rain hammered on the glass like a thousand unspoken arguments. The city outside was blurred — sirens, headlights, and shadows — all bleeding together into a restless, gray hum. Inside the small diner, the air was warm, the coffee strong, and the silence between Jack and Jeeny tense, almost political in its own right.

A radio by the counter murmured news about elections, about laws, about freedom. And then a line slipped through, clear and unapologetic:

“I do not believe that government should be in the business of telling women what they should do with their bodies.” — Kamala Harris

The words hung there — sharp, bright, and impossible to ignore.

Jeeny: “You heard that, didn’t you?”

Jack: “Hard not to.”

Jeeny: “What do you think?”

Jack: “I think it’s complicated.”

Host: He stirred his coffee, the spoon clinking against the cup, slow and deliberate. His eyes, a storm-gray, avoided hers — not out of cowardice, but because he knew this wasn’t a light conversation.

Jeeny: “Complicated? You think freedom is complicated?”

Jack: “Everything is complicated when it’s about power and belief. Don’t pretend it’s simple.”

Jeeny: “It is simple, Jack. It’s her body. Her choice. Her life. The government has no business deciding that for her.”

Host: Her voice cut through the hiss of the coffee machine, trembling not from fear, but from conviction.

Jack: “And what about the people who believe it’s not just her body? What about those who see another life in that argument? You can’t just call them evil.”

Jeeny: “I didn’t. But I’ll call them wrong. Because belief isn’t the same as law. You can believe whatever you want — pray, protest, write, sing — but the moment your belief becomes my restriction, that’s not faith anymore. That’s control.”

Host: The neon sign outside flickered, painting their faces in alternating red and blue — the very colors of the debate they were now living.

Jack: “You make it sound so clean. But laws exist to define limits. That’s what keeps society from falling apart.”

Jeeny: “And who defines those limits, Jack? People in suits who’ll never carry a pregnancy, never face judgment, never bleed for nine months, never hold a dying mother’s hand because a hospital refused to help her? You call that structure. I call that arrogance.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, the muscle in his cheek twitching like a pulse trying to break through the skin. He wasn’t angry — not yet — but the heat had started to rise.

Jack: “You think I don’t understand struggle? That I’ve never seen what pain looks like? I’ve watched people die because of government inaction, Jeeny. I’ve watched systems fail. You think I’m defending that?”

Jeeny: “Then don’t defend control disguised as morality. You’re smarter than that.”

Jack: “I’m saying there are two sides that truly believe they’re protecting life. You can’t legislate morality, but you also can’t dismiss conscience.”

Jeeny: “You can when conscience starts writing laws about my skin, my organs, my choices. You can when someone else’s conscience wants to own my body.”

Host: The rain softened, but the air inside the diner was now thick, humid, like the moment before a storm breaks again. Jeeny’s hands were clasped, tight, her knuckles white, while Jack leaned back, his expression caught somewhere between guilt and grief.

Jack: “You talk about choice like it’s a luxury everyone has. But you know as well as I do — poor women, women in rural towns, they don’t get choices. Not really.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly why this matters. Because when the law starts cutting down rights, it’s not the powerful who bleed first — it’s the forgotten. The woman working three jobs. The girl too scared to tell her parents. The immigrant with no insurance. Freedom isn’t real until it belongs to them too.”

Jack: “But how do you protect both — the woman and the life inside her?”

Jeeny: “By not pretending they’re the same. By letting her decide what life means in her story. Not a courtroom. Not a senator. Not you, Jack.”

Host: Her voice cracked then — not with anger, but with the weight of a thousand real stories, the kind that don’t make the news but live in whispers, bathroom stalls, and midnight phone calls.

Jack: “You really think the government should have no say at all?”

Jeeny: “The government should build roads, schools, and hospitals — not rules for my womb. The government should protect rights, not dictate choices.”

Host: There it was — the crescendo, the climax of conviction. The room felt smaller, closer, the sound of the rain like an audience applauding truth in rhythm.

Jack: “You know, I envy you sometimes.”

Jeeny: “Envy me?”

Jack: “Yeah. For how sure you are. For how fiercely you believe.”

Jeeny: “It’s not certainty, Jack. It’s memory. My mother’s friend almost died when she was denied care. My college roommate had to cross state lines in secret. I’ve seen what happens when laws speak louder than compassion.”

Host: The light from the window faded, leaving only the soft glow of a lamp over their table, the world outside now just a blur of movement.

Jack: “So what happens when both sides think they’re saving lives?”

Jeeny: “Then the only honest side is the one that lets people choose for themselves. That’s democracy — not agreement, but agency.”

Jack: “And if choice means chaos?”

Jeeny: “Then I’ll take chaos over chains.”

Host: The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full — full of the noise of their hearts, full of fear, full of respect, full of love for the human mess that comes from caring too much about the world.

Jack: “You know, I think Kamala Harris was right. Government should never tell women what to do with their bodies. But maybe — maybe government should start listening instead.”

Jeeny: “That would be a start. Listening before legislating.”

Host: She smiled, the kind of smile that broke the tension, soft, sad, strong. Jack returned it — not in agreement, but in understanding.

The rain had stopped. The city was still, as if the world had heard them and paused to think.

Jeeny: “You know, I think freedom’s a lot like rain. It doesn’t fall equally — but it’s supposed to.”

Jack: “Then maybe it’s our job to fix the clouds.”

Host: The camera pulled back, the diner’s neon sign now glowing red — OPEN — a small, stubborn reminder that even in a world divided by belief, the conversation must stay open too.

And as the scene faded, Kamala Harris’s words lingered — not as a political statement, but as a moral compass, quietly echoing through the night:

“Freedom doesn’t need permission. It just needs protection.”