I don't have too much faith in destiny, or an afterlife. This is

Host: The night sky stretched over the city like a vast, indifferent ocean — no moon, only stars, small and cold, scattered across the dark like the remnants of broken promises. Down below, on the rooftop of an old theater, the city hummed faintly — traffic, laughter, sirens, all the sounds of life insisting on itself.

A single neon sign flickered from the street below: The Apollo Bar. The pink light pulsed faintly against the metal railing where Jack leaned, cigarette in hand. Jeeny sat on the low wall nearby, her knees pulled close to her chest, her hair stirring in the breeze. Between them, Jack’s phone screen glowed faintly — the quote they had been discussing written across it, stark and simple in its finality:

“I don't have too much faith in destiny, or an afterlife. This is it.” — Robin Gibb

Jeeny: softly “It’s strange, isn’t it? How a man who wrote songs about eternal love could say that with such calm.”

Jack: exhaling smoke “Maybe that’s exactly why he could. When you make peace with the idea that this is all there is — every breath, every chord — it makes you hold on tighter to the beauty that’s left.”

Host: The wind picked up, carrying the faint echo of a jazz saxophone from a nearby club. Somewhere far below, a car door slammed — a reminder of the world’s indifferent rhythm.

Jeeny: “You sound like you admire it.”

Jack: “I do. Faith is easy when you’ve got forever waiting. But living without the promise of more? That takes courage.”

Jeeny: gazing upward “Or despair. Depends on the night.”

Host: The neon light blinked across her face — pink, then shadow, then pink again — as if time itself couldn’t decide whether to reveal her or not.

Jack: “You believe in destiny, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “I believe in connection. And maybe that’s what destiny really is — the way people’s lives weave together, not because they were meant to, but because they collided.”

Jack: “Collided sounds accidental.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what makes it real. Accidents have more truth in them than plans.”

Host: A sirens’ wail cut through the air, climbing up from the streets and dissolving into the night like a memory fading mid-sentence.

Jack: “You know, people spend their lives trying to find meaning — in signs, in prayers, in what-ifs. But what if meaning’s not hidden at all? What if it’s right here, in the act of noticing?”

Jeeny: “That’s a beautiful thought, Jack.”

Jack: smiling faintly “Yeah. It’s also terrifying. Because it means there’s no grand design to blame when things fall apart.”

Jeeny: after a pause “And no one to thank when they don’t.”

Host: The wind tugged at the edges of her jacket. The two sat in the quiet, the city below glowing like a dying ember. Somewhere in the distance, church bells chimed — not announcing salvation, but time itself passing without apology.

Jack: “You ever wish you believed in something more? Heaven, fate, all that?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. Mostly when I’m scared. But then I realize — maybe the point isn’t to believe there’s something after this. Maybe the point is to live so fiercely that we don’t need there to be.”

Jack: “That’s poetic.”

Jeeny: “No. That’s survival.”

Host: Her voice softened, her words carried by the wind, mixing with the low hum of the street below.

Jack: “Gibb said, This is it. You think he meant that with sadness or relief?”

Jeeny: “Both. There’s something freeing about it, isn’t there? Knowing there’s no sequel — no divine retake. Just this one performance.”

Jack: “And no encore.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. So the question becomes — how do you play your part?”

Host: Jack stared out into the city lights, his grey eyes catching reflections of gold and glass. He thought of all the lives flickering behind those windows — millions of stories, each believing they were the center of the universe, each trying to matter before the lights went out.

Jack: “You think it’s enough? Just living, knowing it all ends?”

Jeeny: “If it isn’t, then what else could be? The sunset doesn’t need an afterlife to be beautiful.”

Jack: “You sound like you’ve made peace with death.”

Jeeny: “No. I’ve made peace with life.”

Host: The sky shifted, a faint band of clouds drifting across the stars. Somewhere, a plane crossed the horizon — a trail of light, brief and bright, then gone.

Jack: “You know what bothers me? How people waste this. They keep waiting for something more, something better, as if tomorrow’s guaranteed. Meanwhile, the moment they’re in goes unlived.”

Jeeny: quietly “We mistake time for abundance.”

Jack: “Exactly. And it’s not. It’s a countdown.”

Host: Jack crushed his cigarette against the railing, the ember fading to ash. The wind carried the smoke upward — vanishing into the dark.

Jeeny: “You talk like someone running out of tomorrows.”

Jack: after a pause “Maybe I just finally started counting them.”

Jeeny: “Then stop counting. Start tasting.”

Host: Her words landed gently, yet they pierced the night. Jack looked at her — the flicker of neon painting her face in light and shadow — and for the first time, he smiled without cynicism.

Jack: “You ever wonder what stays after we go?”

Jeeny: after a beat “Not souls. Just echoes. The way music lingers in a room after the song ends.”

Jack: “You think that’s enough?”

Jeeny: “It has to be. We were here — we felt, we broke, we loved. That’s eternity in disguise.”

Host: The city lights shimmered, blurred by the faint beginning of mist. The night wind carried their voices into the dark — two small souls caught between skepticism and wonder, between the ache of impermanence and the beauty of being.

Jack: “Maybe Gibb was right. Maybe this really is it.”

Jeeny: “Then let’s make it count.”

Host: “The courage to live without faith is its own kind of faith — a devotion to the tangible, the fleeting, the real. Destiny may be illusion, and the afterlife a dream, but within the breath between birth and silence lies something sacred: the chance to love, to create, to remember. Perhaps this is it — and perhaps, that’s enough.”

As the night deepened, the two sat in stillness. Below them, life went on — endless, imperfect, magnificent. And above, the stars burned quietly, needing no heaven to be eternal.