I think if you are passionate about what you want to be or where

Host: The city skyline stretched before them like a field of burning embers — windows glowing, streets humming, life pulsing in every direction. On the rooftop, the wind was cool and restless, carrying the faint smell of rain and concrete. Below, the world moved fast; above, two figures stood still against the vast, indifferent night.

Host: Jack leaned on the railing, a cigarette between his fingers, his grey eyes half-lost in thought. Jeeny, a few feet away, sat cross-legged on the cold concrete floor, her notebook open, pages fluttering in the wind.

Host: They had climbed up here to escape the noise — not the literal noise of the city, but the louder one that lived inside them: the fatigue, the uncertainty, the endless question of why keep trying?

Host: And then, like a spark from the static of the radio they’d left nearby, the quote played. A woman’s voice, steady and honest:

“I think if you are passionate about what you want to be or where you want to go and you work very hard to that goal, it will happen. And, yes, you'll be knocked down and you'll have some tough times. And it won't be easy all the time, but the rewards are pretty amazing, especially if you stay true to yourself.” — Karine Jean-Pierre

Host: The sound faded, leaving only the soft hum of wind and memory.

Jeeny: quietly “She makes it sound so simple, doesn’t she?”

Jack: exhaling smoke “That’s because it always sounds simple when it’s already happened.”

Jeeny: looks up at him “You mean success?”

Jack: “I mean survival. Everyone loves to talk about resilience after they’ve made it. Before that, it’s just pain with better lighting.”

Host: The smoke curled upward, vanishing into the city glow. Jeeny watched it rise, her eyes soft but steady.

Jeeny: “Maybe. But there’s something beautiful about believing it’s possible. Passion isn’t about guarantees—it’s about direction. It gives meaning to the struggle.”

Jack: grins faintly “Meaning doesn’t pay rent, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “Neither does cynicism.”

Host: The wind picked up, tugging at her hair, scattering loose pages from her notebook. She scrambled to catch them, laughing breathlessly. Jack bent to help, his cigarette burning low, his hands clumsy but sincere.

Jeeny: still laughing softly “You know what I think she means by ‘staying true to yourself’? It’s not just about believing in your dream—it’s about refusing to become someone else chasing it.”

Jack: handing her a page “And what if the version of yourself you’re staying true to is the reason you’re failing?”

Jeeny: “Then you change how you work, not who you are.”

Jack: chuckling darkly “That’s poetic. The world doesn’t reward authenticity—it rewards results.”

Jeeny: firmly “No. The world rewards persistence. Results just happen to follow those who don’t quit.”

Jack: “Tell that to the guy who’s been chasing a dream for twenty years and still can’t feed his family.”

Jeeny: pauses, her voice softening “I’m not saying it’s fair. I’m saying it’s necessary. If passion is the fuel, then perseverance is the engine. You need both to move.”

Host: A moment of stillness settled. The city roared below them like an ocean, but up here the air was almost sacred.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about her quote? It’s honest about the hard parts. She doesn’t pretend it’s easy. She just says the reward is worth it. That’s rare.”

Jack: frowning slightly “You really believe that? That hard work guarantees anything?”

Jeeny: “Guarantees? No. But it changes you. And that’s the real reward. Even if you don’t get where you wanted, you become someone who kept going.”

Jack: quietly “You sound like my mother. She used to say the same thing — ‘Jack, it’s not about the prize, it’s about the persistence.’”

Jeeny: smiling warmly “Smart woman.”

Jack: “Yeah. Except she died before she saw me get anywhere.”

Host: The silence that followed wasn’t cold—it was reverent. Jeeny looked at him, her eyes softening like candlelight.

Jeeny: “She still saw you try. That matters.”

Jack: bitterly “Does it?”

Jeeny: “Of course it does. Passion doesn’t need witnesses, Jack. It just needs faith.”

Host: The clouds moved above them, revealing patches of starlight, faint and flickering behind the city’s electric haze. Jack stared upward, the smoke from his cigarette rising like ghosts of all the things he’d once believed in.

Jack: “You know, I used to think passion was enough. That if you wanted something bad enough, the world would bend a little. It doesn’t. It never bends—it breaks you instead.”

Jeeny: “It breaks you to see what’s left. What’s real.”

Jack: scoffs “You sound like one of those motivational posters.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because those posters come from people who refused to give up. And maybe they’re corny because truth always is.”

Jack: half-smiles despite himself “You really think all this—this struggle, this pain—pays off?”

Jeeny: “I think the struggle is the payoff. Because only people who’ve been broken learn how to rebuild with purpose.”

Jack: “You’re talking like pain is a gift.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. It’s proof that you still care.”

Host: The wind softened again, wrapping around them like memory. The city lights below blinked like a constellation built by human hands. Jeeny leaned back against the railing, looking peaceful, almost defiant.

Jeeny: “Do you remember the first script you ever wrote?”

Jack: smirking “Yeah. About a man who builds a house out of glass to prove he has nothing to hide.”

Jeeny: “You believed in that story. You stayed up three nights writing it. That’s what passion looks like, Jack. It’s not about winning—it’s about that fire that makes you forget to sleep.”

Jack: “And the rejection letters that followed?”

Jeeny: grinning softly “Part of the tuition. Every dream charges interest.”

Jack: laughing quietly “You should write that on a wall somewhere.”

Jeeny: “No need. It’s already written on us.”

Host: The words hung in the air like smoke—fleeting, yet impossible to forget.

Host: Far below, the city’s heartbeat never stopped. But up here, they had found something still—something raw and rare.

Jack: “You know, maybe Karine’s right. Maybe the only way to survive the world is to stay stubborn enough to keep believing it’ll pay off.”

Jeeny: softly “Not just believing, Jack—becoming the kind of person who deserves it.”

Jack: “And if it never happens?”

Jeeny: “Then at least we’ll know we didn’t become strangers to ourselves along the way.”

Host: The radio crackled again, replaying her words — that calm, resolute voice speaking of passion, perseverance, and truth.

“...It won’t be easy all the time, but the rewards are pretty amazing, especially if you stay true to yourself.”

Host: The wind carried her voice away, scattering it across the rooftops, where it mingled with the hum of the city and the echo of all who had ever dared to try.

Host: Jeeny closed her notebook. Jack crushed his cigarette. The two stood side by side, facing the endless horizon — weary, scarred, but alive with purpose.

Host: The first light of dawn crept up from behind the buildings, painting the world in pale gold.

Jack: quietly “It’s strange. For the first time in a long time, I actually believe it.”

Jeeny: smiling “Then that’s where it starts.”

Host: The sun broke the horizon. The city awoke.

Host: And in that fragile, fleeting light, they stood — two dreamers battered but unbroken — a little truer, a little stronger, and ready to begin again.