I have lots of friends, but I'm probably a terrible friend to all

Host: The bar was almost empty, just a few late-night souls hunched over drinks like they were guarding secrets. The neon light outside flickered against the rain-streaked window, cutting through the smoke like memory itself — fractured, blinking, refusing to die.

Host: Jack sat at the corner booth, a glass of bourbon untouched before him. His coat collar was still wet, his grey eyes colder than the night. Jeeny arrived late, as she often did — hair still damp, breath quick, her hands trembling slightly from the chill.

Host: She slid into the seat across from him. For a long moment, they didn’t speak. The jukebox hummed some forgotten 80s tune — the kind that makes nostalgia hurt.

Jeeny: “Ariel Pink once said, ‘My friends become my enemies.’”

Jack: “Yeah. Sounds about right.”

Host: He said it without irony — just that flat kind of certainty that only comes from experience.

Jeeny: “You actually believe that?”

Jack: “Sure. Everyone’s friendly until interests collide. Until envy enters the room. Until honesty costs something.”

Jeeny: “That’s not friendship, Jack. That’s transaction.”

Jack: “And what’s friendship to you, Jeeny? Endless forgiveness? Pretending people don’t disappoint you?”

Host: His voice was low, roughened by too many midnights and too little faith. The barlight carved the lines in his face deeper than usual.

Jeeny: “No. Friendship is what keeps you human when the world tries to turn you into a weapon. It’s messy, sure — people hurt each other. But calling your friends enemies… that’s not truth, Jack. That’s fear.”

Jack: “Fear?” (He scoffs.) “No, Jeeny — it’s clarity. I’ve seen it happen. You get close to someone, they learn your weak spots, and one day they use them. Maybe not out of malice. Maybe just survival. But it happens. Every time.”

Jeeny: “You think betrayal is inevitable?”

Jack: “It’s human nature. Loyalty has an expiration date.”

Host: A couple at the bar laughed, the sound cutting through the smoke, brief and bright. Jack’s eyes flicked toward them, then back to Jeeny, as if even laughter offended him tonight.

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who’s been hurt.”

Jack: “Don’t we all? That’s how we get older — trading innocence for suspicion.”

Jeeny: “But suspicion doesn’t heal you, Jack. It just builds walls high enough that no one can reach you anymore. And you start calling it safety when it’s really loneliness.”

Host: The rain outside turned harder, its rhythm pounding against the windows like an argument that wouldn’t stop.

Jack: “You talk like you’ve never lost anyone.”

Jeeny: “Oh, I have. Friends who drifted, others who lied. One who disappeared the day I needed her most. But you know what? I still believe in the idea of friendship — because even if it breaks, it once held.”

Jack: “That’s poetic, Jeeny. But it’s a fool’s math. You keep investing in people who’ll only leave you bankrupt.”

Jeeny: “And you keep holding onto pain like it’s proof you were right. Maybe your real enemy isn’t your friends, Jack. Maybe it’s your own expectation that everyone will fail you.”

Host: Jack’s jaw clenched, the way it always did when her words hit too close. He took a long drink, eyes fixed on the table’s worn wood grain as if searching for meaning in its cracks.

Jack: “You ever had someone you trusted twist your words? Turn your honesty into ammunition? I have. That’s when you learn what friendship really is — temporary shelter before the storm.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe you just keep choosing storms because calm scares you.”

Host: Silence. The clock above the bar ticked, steady and cruel. The bartender wiped a glass slowly, as if afraid to interrupt the tension brewing between two people who weren’t fighting — just breaking quietly in front of each other.

Jeeny: “You know, Ariel Pink’s quote isn’t really about hatred. It’s about self-sabotage. He said he was a terrible friend. That he pushed people away. Maybe that’s you, too.”

Jack: “You think I’m the problem?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. I think you’re human. I think you’ve mistaken guilt for truth. People who say their friends become enemies are often just afraid they’re the ones who’ll disappoint first.”

Host: Jack looked up, slowly. His eyes softened, just a little — like the light catching on ice before it melts.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. I guess I do run before people get the chance to prove me wrong.”

Jeeny: “You don’t run, Jack. You retreat. There’s a difference. Running is fear; retreating is exhaustion. You’ve been fighting alone so long you forgot what it feels like to be seen without defending yourself.”

Host: The neon sign flickered again, bathing the booth in pink, then blue, then nothing for a moment — just darkness, before light returned.

Jack: “You ever think friendship just… fades? Not from anger or betrayal, but entropy. Like everything else in life — it just loses energy.”

Jeeny: “It fades when you stop feeding it. But it can also change shape. Sometimes friends become strangers, and sometimes strangers save you. That’s the cycle. You can’t freeze it without killing it.”

Jack: “And what if I’m not built for it anymore? The effort. The vulnerability. The inevitable disappointment.”

Jeeny: “Then you’ll wake up one day with everything you wanted — peace, solitude, control — and no one left to tell you who you were before you built the walls.”

Host: A single tear formed in the corner of her eye, though her voice stayed steady. Jack saw it, and something inside him — something brittle — began to bend.

Jack: “Maybe I am a terrible friend. Maybe everyone’s better off without me.”

Jeeny: “No. You’re not terrible, Jack. You’re just afraid of being loved imperfectly. You think friendship should be flawless, when it’s really just forgiveness repeated over time.”

Host: Her hand reached across the table, fingers brushing his. The touch was light — not romantic, just human — the kind that says stay.

Host: Outside, the rain softened, and the neon steadied. For the first time that night, Jack looked up and met her gaze fully.

Jack: “You ever think maybe… I could start over?”

Jeeny: “You already did. The moment you admitted you might be wrong.”

Host: The jukebox changed tracks — an old song, slow, tender, something about friendship and loss. Neither of them spoke. They just sat there — two people suspended between confession and forgiveness, between who they were and who they might still become.

Host: The rain stopped, leaving only the faint reflection of the city lights against wet pavement.

Host: Jack leaned back, a ghost of a smile pulling at his mouth.

Jack: “Maybe enemies are just friends I didn’t know how to keep.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe they were mirrors, showing you what you refused to see.”

Host: The clock ticked past midnight. Somewhere, a door creaked open, letting in the smell of wet asphalt and cold air. Jack looked toward it — not to leave, but to remember that he still could.

Host: And as Jeeny watched him — this man of walls and whiskey and unspoken ache — she saw the faintest shimmer of something return to his eyes: not peace, not joy, but possibility.

Host: The bar light dimmed, and the last note of the song hung in the air like an unfinished thought.

Host: In that moment, friendship — fragile, wounded, and real — felt like the bravest thing in the world.