I think forgiveness is overrated, personally, because some things

Host: The rooftop was quiet except for the low hum of the city below, where the lights flickered like restless thoughts. The night was heavy with humidity and the faint smell of asphalt after a day of rain. A few stray sirens echoed in the distance, fading into the hum of late traffic and living.

Jack leaned against the rusted railing, cigarette in hand, his grey eyes catching the dull orange reflection of the streetlights. His posture was loose, but his silence — that still, dense kind — suggested a storm brewing beneath calm.

Jeeny sat cross-legged on an old patio chair, her dark hair loose, a notebook balanced on her knee. A small breeze brushed through, lifting one page before letting it fall again.

Jeeny: quietly, watching him through the dim glow of the rooftop light “Charlamagne tha God once said — ‘I think forgiveness is overrated, personally, because some things people do are unforgivable.’”

Jack: exhales a thin stream of smoke, eyes narrowing “He’s not wrong.”

Jeeny: tilting her head “You really believe that? That some things can’t be forgiven?”

Jack: flicks the ash from his cigarette “Yeah. Some betrayals, some violence — they don’t deserve release. Forgiveness doesn’t undo damage. Sometimes it just lets the wrong people sleep better.”

Host: The wind picked up slightly, tugging at the loose fabric of Jeeny’s sleeve. The sound of the city filled the pause between them — the murmur of people moving through their own unseen tragedies.

Jeeny: softly “But maybe forgiveness isn’t about them sleeping better. Maybe it’s about you finally resting.”

Jack: bitter smile “That’s what they say. But you can forgive someone and still wake up remembering what they took from you. Some wounds don’t close — they just scar. And people call that healing.”

Jeeny: gently “Maybe scarring is healing. It’s proof that pain can’t keep bleeding forever.”

Jack: shaking his head slightly “No. Some things shouldn’t scar. Some things should keep hurting — as a reminder.”

Host: He looked out at the skyline, his reflection faintly visible in the glass of the nearby building. It was the reflection of a man trying to rationalize pain into permanence, to give it meaning so it wouldn’t feel wasted.

Jeeny watched him quietly — not to argue, but to understand.

Jeeny: “Who hurt you that you still won’t forgive?”

Jack: glances at her, surprised “You think this is about me?”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Everything you talk about is about you.”

Jack: chuckling dryly “Fair enough.” He looks away again. “Let’s just say — I’ve learned that forgiveness gets romanticized. We worship it like a moral trophy. Like it makes you enlightened to let monsters off the hook.”

Jeeny: softly “So what’s the alternative? Staying angry?”

Jack: “No. Just accepting that some debts don’t get cleared.”

Jeeny: “That’s still a prison, Jack. You just changed the warden.”

Host: Her words hung in the air like the smoke he exhaled — heavy, curling, slowly dissolving. Jack didn’t answer immediately. He looked down at the city — the cars moving like veins of light beneath him — then back toward her.

Jack: quietly “I think we confuse forgiveness with weakness. Some people commit acts that forfeit their right to grace. To forgive them feels like betraying the part of yourself that survived.”

Jeeny: leaning forward, her tone soft but firm “Forgiveness doesn’t erase justice. It releases your spirit from the courtroom.”

Jack: snapping slightly “And what if I don’t want release?”

Jeeny: calmly “Then you’ve already given them power.”

Host: The silence that followed was sharp — the kind that hums. Jack crushed his cigarette against the railing and watched the embers die, tiny fragments of red falling into the dark.

Jeeny: after a long pause “There’s a difference between unforgivable acts and unforgivable people. You can condemn the act, but still recognize the humanity underneath.”

Jack: dryly “You sound like a preacher.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But even preachers have scars.”

Jack: quietly, almost to himself “Forgiveness is mercy. And mercy’s a luxury. Some people can’t afford it.”

Jeeny: softly “And some people can’t survive without it.”

Host: A plane passed overhead — just a dull hum crossing the dark sky. The light from it flickered briefly across their faces, then disappeared.

Jack: after a long pause “Do you believe everything can be forgiven?”

Jeeny: looking out at the night “No. I think some things are too big. But I also think refusing to forgive doesn’t give them less weight — it just means you carry it forever.”

Jack: bitterly “Maybe some weights deserve to be carried.”

Jeeny: “Not by you.”

Host: She looked at him then, her eyes catching the faint reflection of city light — a quiet intensity that spoke of compassion disguised as defiance.

Jeeny: softly “You know, Charlamagne wasn’t talking about weakness. He was talking about boundaries. Saying some things are unforgivable isn’t hatred — it’s a line. It’s saying, ‘I won’t let you rewrite what you did.’”

Jack: nods slowly “So forgiveness isn’t always noble. Sometimes it’s dangerous.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Sometimes forgiveness becomes complicity.”

Host: The wind pushed again, stronger this time. Jack zipped up his jacket, eyes still far off.

Jack: softly “Then maybe the goal isn’t forgiveness or vengeance. Maybe it’s understanding — without excusing.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “And peace — without permission.”

Host: The sound of the rain returned — soft now, rhythmic, cleansing. The city’s lights blurred, shimmering like tears on glass.

Jack lit another cigarette, this time slower, more thoughtful.

Jack: quietly “You know what I realized tonight? Maybe forgiveness isn’t a door you open for others. It’s one you learn to close.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “And that’s still mercy. Just turned inward.”

Host: She stood, tightening her coat, looking at him with quiet understanding.

Jeeny: “Forgiveness may be overrated, Jack. But healing isn’t.”

Jack: looking up at her, a faint smile “You always find the way to the middle ground, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “That’s where the truth usually hides.”

Host: She walked toward the rooftop door, her steps soft, her silhouette fading into the shadows. Jack remained, staring at the horizon — the faintest hint of dawn beginning to tease the skyline.

He whispered — not to her, not even to himself, but to the night that had listened.

Jack: softly “Some things are unforgivable… but I’ll still try to live.”

Host: The camera lingered on him — the city stretching behind, alive with wounds and wonder. The smoke rose, dissolved, disappeared into the coming light.

And as the dawn began to bloom, Charlamagne tha God’s words echoed through the quiet like a defiant prayer:

“Forgiveness is overrated, because some things people do are unforgivable.”

Because forgiveness isn’t the final act —
sometimes, survival is.

And in the long aftermath of hurt,
when justice fails and memory refuses to fade,
the bravest thing a soul can do
is stop seeking closure —
and start living in the open wound,
turning pain, not into pardon,
but into power.