I never drank except a couple sips of wine at Thanksgiving.

Host: The evening was quiet, draped in soft winter air and the scent of cinnamon and wood smoke. The apartment was small, dimly lit, its corners filled with shadows and the faint hum of a world going to sleep outside. On the table, between two glasses of untouched wine, Jack and Jeeny sat across from each other, surrounded by the faint remnants of a holiday meal — a few crumbs, a burnt candle, and the silence that comes after truth has been waiting too long to speak.

Host: The TV murmured faintly in the background — an old interview playing, where Carol Alt’s voice, gentle and sincere, said,
“I never drank except a couple sips of wine at Thanksgiving.”

The voice faded, but the words stayed, echoing like a soft bell in the quiet room.

Jack: (half-smiling) “Imagine that. A life without a drink. That’s either incredible willpower or a very different kind of loneliness.”

Jeeny: (smiling gently) “Maybe it’s not about willpower. Maybe it’s about knowing who you are — and who you might become if you forget.”

Jack: (raising his glass, un-drunk) “You say that like forgetting’s a sin. Sometimes a little oblivion feels holy.”

Jeeny: “Not all forgetting is freedom. Sometimes it’s surrender dressed up as relief.”

Host: Jack’s fingers played with the stem of his glass, the liquid still, dark red, catching the candlelight like blood disguised as beauty.

Jack: “So what, you think she’s noble? This Carol Alt — the model who never drank? You think that makes her pure?”

Jeeny: (softly) “No. Not pure. Just awake.”

Jack: “Awake?” (chuckles bitterly) “Awake is overrated. The world’s too sharp when you’re sober. Every edge cuts.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why she chose to stay sober — because she didn’t want to dull the edges. Some people would rather feel the truth than hide from it.”

Host: The candlelight trembled, casting shadows that seemed to argue across the wall — one bright, one dark, dancing like belief and doubt. Outside, the city wind pressed against the window, a faint howl echoing through the glass, as if the night itself were listening.

Jack: “You know, I envy people who can live like that. Clean. Controlled. Always in command of themselves. But I also pity them. Because they’ll never know what it’s like to drown and come up gasping — alive.”

Jeeny: “That’s not aliveness, Jack. That’s survival. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “And you think I don’t know that?”

Jeeny: “No, I think you know it too well. That’s why you chase moments instead of peace.”

Jack: (leaning back, eyes narrowing) “Peace is overrated. It’s just boredom with better PR.”

Jeeny: “Then why do you look so tired when the night ends?”

Host: The question hit him harder than he’d expected. He looked down at his hands, weathered, restless, human. The wine glass caught a bit of light, reflecting a distorted version of his face — one he didn’t quite recognize.

Jack: (quietly) “You think she was afraid of what would happen if she drank?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not afraid. Maybe just aware. Some people don’t need to touch the fire to know it burns.”

Jack: “And the rest of us?”

Jeeny: “We spend our lives pretending the scars were worth it.”

Host: A pause. The kind that changes temperature, where truth enters the room like a third guest. The clock ticked — soft, slow, like time deciding whether to stay.

Jack: (finally) “You ever notice how people judge those who abstain? As if they’re the strange ones? Like moderation is madness in a world addicted to escape.”

Jeeny: “Because abstinence threatens the lie that we need escape. A sober person is a mirror — and no one likes to see themselves clearly when they’ve blurred the edges too long.”

Jack: (grinning faintly) “You always make virtue sound like rebellion.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. In a world built on indulgence, restraint becomes radical.”

Host: The wind outside began to still, the city’s pulse softening. Inside, the candlelight grew lower, and the room seemed to tighten, drawing the two closer together.

Jack: “So you admire her — Carol Alt — for never needing to fall.”

Jeeny: “I admire her for knowing what she didn’t need to prove. For realizing that experience isn’t always salvation. Sometimes it’s just noise.”

Jack: “But isn’t life supposed to be tasted? Every corner, every mistake, every sip?”

Jeeny: “Tasted, yes. But not devoured. There’s a difference between living fully and losing yourself in the feast.”

Jack: (softly) “You sound like someone who’s learned that difference the hard way.”

Jeeny: (nodding) “We all have. Some people learn it in rehab. Some in heartbreak. Some in silence.”

Host: The wine in Jack’s glass shimmered, untouched still — like temptation politely declined. Jeeny’s cup sat empty, though she had never filled it. Two halves of the same decision, framed in opposite ways.

Jack: “You ever think maybe people like her are missing out? The chaos, the blur, the wild parts — that’s what makes us alive.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. What makes us alive is knowing we could destroy ourselves — and choosing not to.”

Jack: (after a pause) “You make it sound like control is an art.”

Jeeny: “It is. And like all art, it’s painful. You create boundaries with your own hands, and you live inside them, even when the world tells you to break free.”

Host: The flame on the candle wavered, its light fragile but persistent. The silence was no longer empty — it had grown into something like understanding.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why I love her story. Not because it’s about alcohol, but because it’s about choice. She didn’t let the world tell her what joy should look like.”

Jack: “So, joy without escape.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The kind of joy that doesn’t need proof.”

Host: The clock struck midnight, its chime soft, almost apologetic. Jack reached for the wine, stared at it for a long moment, then set it down again, his reflection rippling in the surface like a thought unfinished.

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe not drinking doesn’t make you saintly. But it does make you certain — certain of who you are when the noise fades.”

Jeeny: (nodding) “And that’s the hardest kind of certainty to find.”

Host: The last candle finally died, leaving only the sound of rain returning, gentle and rhythmic, like forgiveness against the glass.

In the dark, their voices softened, as though the truth had already been spoken.

Jack: “No time for regrets, huh?”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Not when the heart’s still sober enough to remember.”

Host: Outside, the world breathed again,
and the two of them, still sitting at the table,
were left with what Carol Alt’s quiet conviction had really meant:

that sometimes the strongest act of defiance
isn’t indulgence — but refusal,

and sometimes, the bravest way to feel everything
is to face it with clear eyes,
and an empty glass.