I give credit for my fitness to my good genes.

Host: The morning sun had just begun to filter through the smog of the city, casting gold over the quiet park benches and empty jogging trails. The air smelled faintly of wet earth and leaves, the kind of morning where every breath feels heavy with unspoken thought. A few runners passed, their shoes thudding softly on the path like a steady heartbeat.

Jack sat on a worn bench, his hands clasped, his breath visible in the cool air. His tracksuit was plain, his sneakers old. Beside him, Jeeny stretched — calm, precise, her movements fluid like a poem written in motion. Her hair caught the light, glowing with a kind of effortless discipline.

Jack: “You know what Jeetendra once said? ‘I give credit for my fitness to my good genes.’”
(He smirks, wiping sweat from his forehead.) “Guess that means I’m doomed.”

Jeeny: “You always find a way to blame fate, don’t you?”
(Her tone is teasing, but her eyes are serious.) “Maybe it’s not the genes — maybe it’s the excuses.”

Host: A pigeon landed nearby, pecking at something invisible on the ground. The sunlight grew warmer, spreading across the park like slow forgiveness. Jack leaned back, exhaling, his breath clouding and fading.

Jack: “Come on, Jeeny. You can’t deny genetics plays a part. Some people are born with the right build, the right metabolism, the right everything. You can’t train your DNA.”

Jeeny: “No, but you can train your will.”
(She sat beside him, the faint sound of her breathing syncing with his.) “Genes give you a foundation. But discipline — that’s what builds the house.”

Jack: “Yeah, well, some of us got the kind of genes that build the house halfway and then leave it to rot.”

Host: He laughed, a dry, tired sound — the kind that hides something heavier beneath. Jeeny watched him for a long moment, her expression softening. A group of young joggers passed them, their laughter cutting through the quiet like sunlight through fog.

Jeeny: “You know what’s funny? People love giving credit to luck when things go right — and blame to themselves when things go wrong. Maybe Jeetendra meant it playfully. But even he had to work. Those ‘good genes’ didn’t lift the weights for him.”

Jack: “Sure. But it’s easier for him. If you start with better tools, the job gets easier. Some people run faster just because life handed them better lungs.”

Jeeny: “And others keep running even when their lungs burn. That’s the difference.”

Host: A soft wind swept through the trees, scattering a few leaves onto the path. Jack watched one of them spiral, falling, spinning, settling quietly by his feet. He nudged it absently with his shoe.

Jack: “You always turn everything into a sermon.”

Jeeny: “Because you always stop halfway to the truth.”

Jack: “And what’s the whole truth, then?”

Jeeny: “That genes might start the story — but effort decides how it ends.”

Host: Her voice carried a calm conviction, the kind that cuts deeper because it never rises. Jack stared at her, his grey eyes unreadable, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

Jack: “So you think effort can beat biology?”

Jeeny: “I think the body follows what the mind believes. Look at history — Stephen Hawking. His genes failed him, but his will outlived his body. Or look at athletes who come from poverty, with nothing but a dream. Genes might decide your limits. But will decides if you ever reach them.”

Host: The light shifted, catching in the dew along the grass, turning it to a field of quiet diamonds. Jack tilted his head back, staring at the pale blue sky where a lone kite drifted, barely tethered.

Jack: “You make it sound heroic. But not everyone’s built for heroism. Some people just want to survive, not conquer.”

Jeeny: “Survival takes its own kind of heroism. It’s not about medals or headlines. It’s about showing up — even when your genes, your luck, your life — all tell you not to.”

Host: There was a stillness now — a different kind of quiet, one filled with understanding. A dog barked in the distance; a child’s laughter floated faintly from the playground. The world moved on, softly.

Jack: “You really think we control more than we’re given?”

Jeeny: “I think we choose what we do with what we’re given. That’s the real fitness — not muscle, not metabolism — but resilience.”

Host: Jack nodded, eyes following a jogger running past — lean, confident, sweat shining like armor. He watched the motion with something between envy and admiration.

Jack: “You ever think some people chase fitness like they’re trying to fix something inside?”

Jeeny: “Of course. We all are. We all want to prove we’re more than what our parents, our genes, or our fears made us. Fitness isn’t about perfection, Jack — it’s about reclaiming ownership of yourself.”

Jack: “That sounds like therapy.”

Jeeny: “It is. For the body and the soul.”

Host: The sun climbed higher now, the sky brightening into sharp clarity. Jack rubbed his hands together, the cold giving way to warmth. For the first time that morning, his posture straightened.

Jack: “Alright then, philosopher. If it’s all about will — prove it. Race you to the bridge.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “You’ll regret that.”

Jack: “Not if I use my bad genes as an excuse.”

Host: They both laughed, a real, unguarded sound that filled the empty park like the first chords of a song. Then — without warning — Jack took off, his steps uneven but eager. Jeeny followed, her stride effortless, her hair a dark ribbon streaming in the sun.

The wind caught around them, carrying their laughter, their breath, their shared stubbornness into the morning air.

Jack’s lungs burned. His legs protested. But for once, he didn’t stop. Jeeny ran beside him, not ahead, not behind — matching his rhythm, step for step.

As they reached the bridge, both breathing hard, both smiling, Jack bent over, hands on knees, sweat dripping, heart pounding like applause.

Jack: “Alright. Maybe willpower has… a point.”

Jeeny: “Maybe?”
(She grinned, eyes glinting.) “You’re already proving it.”

Host: The sunlight poured over them, golden and unwavering. In that light, the world didn’t care about genetics or excuses — only motion. Only the will to keep moving.

And as the river below them glimmered, reflecting the morning’s brightness, it seemed to whisper its own truth — that strength is never inherited. It’s earned, breath by breath, step by step, moment by moment.