I tried the paleo diet, which is the caveman diet - lots of meat.

Host:
The cabin stood at the edge of a forest, its wooden beams dark with rain, its single lamp casting a pool of trembling light upon the table. Outside, the wind sighed through the pines, carrying the smell of wet earth and something ancient, like the breath of time itself.

Inside, Jack sat near the window, turning a fork in his hand without eating. Before him sat a plate of overcooked meat, untouched. Across from him, Jeeny was spooning lentil stew into a chipped bowl, her movements quiet and deliberate.

A fire crackled in the old stove, its light dancing across their faces — the skeptic and the believer, each reflecting the other like shadow and flame.

Jeeny:
(softly, reading from her tablet)

“I tried the paleo diet, which is the caveman diet — lots of meat. And I tried the calorie restriction diet: The idea is that if you eat very, very little — if you’re on the verge of starvation, you will live a very long time, whether or not you want to, of course.”
— A. J. Jacobs

Host:
Her voice hung in the small room, light and wry, like the echo of a thought that wasn’t quite finished.

Jack:
(smiling faintly)
“Trust Jacobs to make suffering sound scientific. Starve yourself to cheat death — the oldest trick in the book.”

Jeeny:
(grinning)
“Or the oldest illusion. Maybe the caveman diet just proves we’re still trying to survive a world we no longer live in.”

Host:
The rain tapped on the windowpane like impatient fingers. Beyond the glass, the forest swayed, its dark shapes shifting like restless memories.

Jack:
“You know what this quote really says? That we’ll try anything to outrun mortality — even misery. Eat like a caveman, eat like a ghost. Doesn’t matter, as long as you don’t have to face the fact you’re temporary.”

Jeeny:
“Maybe it’s not about escaping death, Jack. Maybe it’s about learning to live better — to find the edge of hunger and remember what being alive actually feels like.”

Jack:
“Alive? You call near-starvation alive? That’s not living, Jeeny — that’s worshipping death in slow motion.”

Jeeny:
(smiling gently)
“You always see obsession, don’t you? I see curiosity. Humans have always tested limits — of faith, of pain, of endurance. Diets are just modern pilgrimages.”

Host:
The fire flared suddenly, throwing their shadows large and trembling across the cabin walls — two silhouettes in argument, their gestures merging with the pulse of flame.

Jack:
“Pilgrimages used to lead somewhere sacred. Now they just lead to better abs and longer lifespans. It’s vanity disguised as virtue.”

Jeeny:
“Or maybe it’s the same longing, just translated. The monks fasted for purity; we fast for health. Either way, we’re trying to touch eternity through the body.”

Host:
Her words softened the air, yet behind them was a quiet strength — the kind that speaks not of naivety, but of hope refusing to die.

Jack:
“But what’s the point of living longer if you have to shrink yourself to do it? Every bite becomes a moral choice. Every calorie a confession.”

Jeeny:
“Maybe the point isn’t the number of years, Jack. Maybe it’s the mindfulness that comes when you stop consuming blindly. Hunger, in its own way, can be holy.”

Host:
A pause. The kind of silence that doesn’t divide, but deepens. The rain eased, falling softer now, like the world was listening too.

Jack:
(quietly)
“You talk like pain’s a teacher.”

Jeeny:
“It is. You just have to decide whether it’s teaching you restraint or self-punishment.”

Host:
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his grey eyes catching the light like sharpened steel.

Jack:
“You really think starving yourself makes you wise?”

Jeeny:
“No. But it reminds you that you’re more than your appetites. The line between need and desire — that’s where the soul wakes up.”

Host:
Her voice trembled slightly at the word soul, as if she feared breaking the spell.

Jack:
(scoffing lightly)
“Maybe. But the soul still needs breakfast.”

Jeeny:
(laughing)
“True. But maybe the soul doesn’t need seconds.”

Host:
Their laughter — brief, bright — filled the little cabin like the first crack of light after a storm.

Jack:
(softly)
“You know, I’ve met people who swear by the calorie restriction thing. They talk about living to 120 like it’s salvation. But you look in their eyes — and they already look halfway gone.”

Jeeny:
“That’s the danger of any devotion — when it becomes its own hunger. You chase immortality so hard that you forget to live.”

Host:
Outside, a thin moon emerged through a break in the clouds, silver and shy. Its light spilled across the floorboards, softening everything it touched.

Jack:
“So maybe Jacobs was right — you can live a long time on the verge of starvation. But who would want to?”

Jeeny:
“Someone who’s afraid of dying before they’ve really lived. Someone who thinks that controlling the body can save the spirit.”

Jack:
“And you don’t?”

Jeeny:
“No. I think the body is a language — and hunger, fullness, fatigue — they’re all words. But if all you ever say is ‘no,’ eventually, your body stops speaking back.”

Host:
The fire crackled again, as if applauding her quiet truth. Jack said nothing. He only watched her, eyes softening beneath the weight of something unspoken.

Jack:
“You think Jacobs was mocking himself?”

Jeeny:
“I think he was confessing. Humor’s the only way to admit you’re terrified of death without sounding desperate.”

Jack:
(grinning faintly)
“So you think all these diets — paleo, fasting, whatever — are just rituals for modern fear?”

Jeeny:
“Yes. Fear of death. Fear of imperfection. Fear of surrender. The caveman had no mirror. But we’ve got a thousand — and every one asks, ‘Have you earned your right to exist today?’”

Host:
The wind picked up again, rustling the pine branches outside. The flame in the stove wavered, casting moving shadows across the rough cabin walls — the illusion of motion, the reminder of stillness.

Jack:
(quietly, almost to himself)
“I guess all our diets are really just our philosophies in disguise. Paleo, vegan, fasting — everyone’s saying the same thing: ‘I want control in a world that won’t give me any.’”

Jeeny:
“And maybe that’s okay — as long as we remember that control’s an illusion, not a cure.”

Host:
Her words landed gently, and then the room fell silent. Outside, the rain stopped altogether. The moonlight grew stronger, pure and cold, spilling over the table like quiet revelation.

Jack finally picked up his fork. The meat had gone cold, but he took a bite anyway. Jeeny, smiling faintly, lifted her spoon.

They ate in silence — not in victory, not in defeat — but in understanding.

Host:
And for that small moment, as the fire hummed and the forest sighed, there was no diet, no fear, no striving — just two souls, fed by the simplest truth of all:

That to live well is not to conquer hunger,
but to share it —
and to laugh at the absurdity of being human enough to try.