I know from experience that you should never give up on yourself

Host: The rain fell in long, silver threads, blurring the neon lights of the city street. A flickering sign above a half-empty diner hummed softly — “OPEN 24 HOURS.” Inside, the air was thick with the scent of coffee, tired dreams, and forgotten songs from the old jukebox in the corner.

Jack sat by the window, his hands wrapped around a mug that had long gone cold. His grey eyes reflected the wet glow outside — distant, weary, yet unyielding. Jeeny sat across from him, her black hair damp from the rain, strands clinging to her cheeks. The steam from her cup rose between them like a quiet ghost of warmth.

Outside, thunder rolled somewhere beyond the skyscrapers. Inside, a different kind of storm brewed — one that had been waiting all night.

Jeeny: (softly) “George Foreman once said, ‘I know from experience that you should never give up on yourself or others, no matter what.’”
(she traced her finger along the rim of her cup) “I think that’s the hardest kind of faith — to keep believing in people even after they’ve broken your heart.”

Jack: (smirking faintly) “Faith’s a luxury, Jeeny. People love to talk about ‘never giving up,’ but they’ve never been hit hard enough to know what giving up feels like.”

Host: The light above their table flickered, casting shadows across Jack’s sharp jawline. The rain outside hit the glass like restless fingers tapping on a locked door.

Jeeny: “You’re wrong. Foreman was hit hard. Knocked down, defeated, humiliated. But he came back — not just as a boxer, but as a man. He found peace with himself. That’s what he meant — that you can lose everything and still not be lost.”

Jack: (leaning forward, voice low) “Foreman had millions waiting for him when he came back. Redemption looks easier with a paycheck. Try being some factory worker who can’t feed his kid. Try getting up then.”

Jeeny: “So you think pain justifies surrender?”

Jack: “No. I think pain exposes limits. Not everyone’s built for comebacks. Some people stay down because the world doesn’t give them room to stand.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes glimmered, reflecting both the neon light and something rawer — defiance. She set down her cup, her voice trembling with conviction.

Jeeny: “Then what about belief? Not in the system, but in each other? When Foreman lost to Ali in Zaire, the whole world thought he was done. Ten years later, he became champion again — at forty-five. He didn’t need the world to believe in him. He believed enough for both sides.”

Jack: (bitterly) “That’s one man in a billion. Most people don’t get redemption arcs — they get regret.”

Host: The thunder cracked closer now. A couple of stray lights flickered through the rain like signals from another universe. Jeeny’s voice softened, but her eyes hardened with quiet fire.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that exactly why his story matters? Because it’s rare? Because it shows that even after you fall, even after you fail, something inside still wants to rise? That’s not delusion, Jack. That’s the soul refusing extinction.”

Jack: (dryly) “The soul’s overrated. Biology drives everything — fear, hunger, survival. Hope’s just a chemical reaction dressed up in poetry.”

Host: A faint smile touched Jeeny’s lips, though her eyes were sad. She watched the raindrops race each other down the windowpane, as if life itself were testing which one would last the longest.

Jeeny: “Then why are you still here, Jack? Still fighting, still talking? If hope’s just chemistry, you should’ve given up a long time ago.”

Jack: (after a pause) “Maybe I did. Maybe I’m just running on inertia.”

Host: His voice cracked, almost imperceptibly. The music from the jukebox shifted to a slow, trembling blues tune — something from the sixties, full of ache and memory.

Jeeny: “Inertia’s still movement. You’re still standing, Jack