I have moments where I miss my old self. But I think anyone can

Host: The evening sky was a tapestry of bruised violet and faint amber, the sun’s last rays sinking into the river like a secret being kept. The air was thick with the scent of wet earth, and somewhere in the distance, a train moaned — the kind of lonely sound that makes even strangers fall silent.

On a small wooden dock, Jack sat cross-legged, a bottle of whiskey beside him, its label peeling with age. The water lapped gently against the posts, each ripple catching what little light was left.

Jeeny approached quietly, her hair caught by the breeze, her steps soft against the wood. She held two paper cups of steaming coffee. When she reached him, she didn’t speak — she simply sat down beside him, offering one cup without looking.

Host: The moment stretched — the kind that exists outside of time, where neither past nor future dares intrude.

Jeeny: “Steve Gleason said something once — ‘I have moments where I miss my old self. But I think anyone can get caught up in what we used to have. But at the same time, we can choose to focus on the beauty of now.’”
She stared out across the water. “It’s strange, isn’t it? How the past can feel heavier than the present.”

Jack: “He was right about one thing,” he muttered. “It’s easy to get caught up in what used to be. The older you get, the more ghosts you collect.”

Host: The wind tugged at his collar, the river’s surface rippling like a mirror disturbed by memory.

Jeeny: “Do you miss who you used to be?”

Jack: “Every day.”
He took a slow drink from his cup, eyes fixed on the darkening water. “There was a time I used to laugh without thinking about it. Work meant something. I used to believe I was building something — not just surviving.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I build routines. Deadlines. Obligations. You call it growing up, but it feels more like fading out.”

Host: The last light slipped below the horizon. A faint hum of crickets began, the world whispering its acceptance of night.

Jeeny: “You talk like change is decay, Jack. But maybe it’s just transformation. The caterpillar probably misses walking when it learns to fly.”

Jack: “Cute metaphor,” he said with a crooked grin. “But you forget — caterpillars don’t remember what walking felt like. People do.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what makes it beautiful. That we can remember what we were, and still choose to keep becoming.”

Host: Jack’s eyes narrowed, as if her words had touched some tender nerve beneath his cynicism. He tossed a small pebble into the river. It disappeared with a quiet plunk, ripples widening, then vanishing.

Jack: “You ever look back and feel like you don’t recognize yourself? Like the person in your old photos — he had fire, purpose. And the person staring back now… is just surviving the days?”

Jeeny: “All the time,” she said softly. “But I don’t see it as loss anymore. Just a kind of shedding.”

Jack: “Shedding?”

Jeeny: “Yeah. Like trees in autumn. They don’t mourn the leaves they lose. They trust that spring will come again.”

Host: The moon began to rise, a pale silver coin floating in the ink of the sky. Its light kissed Jeeny’s face, softening her expression, giving her an almost ethereal calm.

Jeeny: “You know Steve Gleason was diagnosed with ALS, right? Lost the ability to walk, talk, move. Everything that defined who he used to be. But he said that he learned to see the world more clearly through what he lost.”

Jack: “That’s easy to say when you’re trying to find meaning in pain.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But isn’t that what life is? Finding meaning in what hurts?”

Jack: “Maybe life is just learning to stop fighting it.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s learning to stop mourning it.”

Host: The silence after her words was deep — not empty, but full. Like the pause between waves. Jack’s face softened. He turned toward her, his eyes dim but glinting faintly, like coals that refused to die.

Jack: “You know, I used to wake up with plans. Big ones. I was going to open a design firm, travel, maybe even teach someday. Now… I wake up and try to get through emails without wanting to throw my laptop out the window.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s not failure, Jack. Maybe it’s evolution. Your plans changed, but maybe your purpose didn’t.”

Jack: “Purpose,” he said, almost laughing. “That’s a word for people who still believe the world listens.”

Jeeny: “No. That’s a word for people who still talk, even when the world doesn’t.”

Host: Her voice was quiet but fierce. The night air shimmered slightly, as if charged with something unspoken.

Jeeny: “You’re so focused on what you used to be that you can’t see who you are now. Maybe your old self had dreams. But your current self — he’s survived everything the old one couldn’t.”

Jack: “That’s a nice line for a greeting card.”

Jeeny: “It’s not a line. It’s your truth. You keep comparing yourself to a ghost and wondering why you feel haunted.”

Host: A soft laugh escaped her — tender, not mocking. Jack smiled despite himself, the first real one in weeks, maybe months.

Jack: “You always sound like you’re quoting something holy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the present moment is holy, Jack. Maybe that’s what we keep missing while we chase the past.”

Host: The river shimmered beneath the moonlight, each wave a small pulse of silver life. Somewhere, an owl called — the sound long, slow, patient.

Jack: “So what? You just… let go? Pretend you don’t miss who you were?”

Jeeny: “No. You honor it. But you stop trying to live there.”

Jack: “And if the present doesn’t feel beautiful?”

Jeeny: “Then you look closer. Beauty hides in the smallest things — in breath, in company, in survival itself.”

Host: Her hand rested lightly on his. It wasn’t romantic — it was something deeper. A gesture of recognition between two souls still learning how to be here.

Jack: “You think the beauty of now can outweigh the ache of what’s gone?”

Jeeny: “Not outweigh. But transform it. The ache becomes the art.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the faint scent of rain from somewhere far off. Jack exhaled, a long, trembling breath, as though he’d been holding it for years.

Jack: “You ever think about who you used to be?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. But mostly, I think about who I’m still becoming.”

Host: The moonlight rippled across their faces — two travelers in the long river of time, no longer fighting the current.

Jack: “You know something, Jeeny? I think I envy you. You make peace sound like poetry.”

Jeeny: “That’s because it is. It’s the kind of poetry written in scars, not ink.”

Host: The river murmured softly beneath them. The bottle of whiskey stood forgotten, the coffee gone cold. But the air had shifted — lighter now, warmer somehow.

Jack: “Maybe I can start over. Not go back — just… begin again.”

Jeeny: “That’s all any of us can do.”

Host: A faint mist rose from the river, curling like breath in the cold. In the distance, the first stars began to appear — faint, uncertain, but present.

Jeeny: “You don’t have to miss your old self, Jack. He’s still here — in the way you care, in the way you keep trying. You didn’t lose him. You just grew into someone who can see further.”

Jack: “And what do you see when you look now?”

Jeeny: “You,” she said simply. “Alive. Here. Enough.”

Host: Jack looked out across the water, the reflection of the moon trembling with each ripple, and for the first time in years, he didn’t feel the urge to chase the image — he just watched it dance.

The night settled around them like a soft blanket, neither heavy nor sad, but full — as if the world itself had exhaled.

Jeeny: “You know, the beauty of now isn’t that it lasts. It’s that it happens at all.”

Jack: “Then I guess this — us sitting here — is beautiful too.”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she said, smiling. “Exactly this.”

Host: The camera would pull back now — the dock, the river, the two quiet figures silhouetted under the vast, star-laced sky. No grand revelation, no fireworks — just stillness. The kind that heals.

And in that stillness, where memory and presence finally stopped fighting, the world — and Jack — began, quietly, to breathe again.