I want to do something to change the mistrust towards

Host: The evening sky hung low over the city, bruised with violet clouds and streaks of dying gold. The streets below were half-empty — an in-between hour, when the office towers had dimmed but the bars had not yet begun to sing.

In a quiet park café, the air smelled faintly of rain and coffee grounds. A small radio crackled somewhere behind the counter, murmuring faint news of elections and promises.

Jack sat by the window, his coat damp, his hands wrapped around a mug. His eyes, grey and tired, stared out at the puddles reflecting broken lights. Across from him, Jeeny adjusted her scarf, watching him in the muted glow.

They were both silent — until Jeeny spoke, her voice carrying the warmth of conviction.

Jeeny: “Volodymyr Zelensky once said, ‘I want to do something to change the mistrust towards politicians.’ That line has been echoing in my head all day.”

Jack: (without turning) “A noble sentiment. Dangerous, too. Trying to fix mistrust is like trying to unburn paper.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But isn’t that the point? He was an outsider once — a comedian, an artist. He tried to rebuild the bridge between truth and power.”

Jack: (dryly) “And now he’s knee-deep in war and politics. The bridge probably burned twice.”

Host: A gust of wind brushed against the window, scattering raindrops like tiny bullets. The city lights shimmered in reflection — distorted, trembling.

Jeeny: “You sound cynical tonight.”

Jack: “I’m realistic. People don’t mistrust politicians without reason. The whole machine runs on half-truths and empty words. You want to change that? You’d have to change human nature.”

Jeeny: “No — just remind people that human nature isn’t all corruption. That leadership can still mean service.”

Jack: (chuckles) “Service? Most of them serve only themselves. You think one honest man can clean an ocean of greed?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But one man can show that honesty still breathes. That’s what Zelensky tried to prove — that leadership isn’t a suit, it’s a conscience.”

Jack: “And conscience doesn’t win elections, Jeeny. Promises do. Stories. The illusion of change.”

Host: The radio hummed again — static between voices, like a conversation between ghosts. A commentator mentioned “reform,” “trust,” “accountability.” Words polished by repetition, hollowed by overuse.

Jeeny: “You know what the tragedy is, Jack? Not that politicians lie. It’s that people have stopped believing anyone could tell the truth.”

Jack: “Because truth doesn’t pay the bills. Because idealism gets crushed the second it meets the bureaucracy.”

Jeeny: (leaning forward) “And yet Zelensky didn’t start in an office. He started in art. In humor. He used laughter to challenge power. That’s why people trusted him — he made them see politicians as humans again.”

Jack: “Until bombs fell. Then laughter turned into speeches. That’s when trust dies — when people realize hope can’t stop missiles.”

Jeeny: “But hope can still hold people together. That’s power too, Jack.”

Jack: “You can’t feed a country with hope.”

Jeeny: “But you can starve it without it.”

Host: The silence that followed was thick, filled with the low hum of rain. Jack stared into his cup, as if searching for something in the dark liquid — an answer, or maybe just a reflection he could stand to see.

Jeeny’s eyes softened, but her words carried fire.

Jeeny: “You know, my father used to vote every year, no matter how hopeless he said it was. He’d walk to the polling station in the rain, come back dripping wet, and say, ‘At least I can still try.’ That’s trust, Jack — not in politicians, but in the idea of responsibility.”

Jack: (quietly) “And did it change anything?”

Jeeny: “It changed him. It kept him from becoming bitter. Isn’t that something?”

Jack: “Maybe. But I’ve seen too many good people broken by that kind of faith. They believe in the system until it uses them up.”

Jeeny: “And yet, without belief, what’s left? A society that laughs at sincerity, mocks anyone who still cares? You think that’s better?”

Jack: “At least it’s honest.”

Jeeny: (firmly) “No — it’s cowardice disguised as wisdom.”

Host: The air between them shifted — sharp, alive. The lamplight trembled on the table. Outside, the rain softened into mist, painting halos around streetlights.

Jack: “You think mistrust can be erased with honesty?”

Jeeny: “Not erased — repaired. Slowly. Patiently. One act at a time.”

Jack: “You sound like a campaign slogan.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like the very cynicism that makes slogans necessary.”

(A faint smile flickered between them, the kind that comes after the sting of truth.)

Host: The barista refilled their cups quietly, the smell of roasted beans cutting through the tension. The rain outside faded completely now, leaving the world coated in quiet reflection.

Jack: “So, what would you do? If you were in his place?”

Jeeny: “I’d listen. Not to the powerful, but to the exhausted — the ones who’ve stopped talking because no one ever hears them.”

Jack: “Listening won’t change the world.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But it’s the first thing power forgets how to do.”

Host: Jack looked at her then — really looked. The lines of conviction around her eyes, the steadiness in her voice. For a moment, his skepticism faltered, replaced by something quieter — maybe respect, maybe longing.

Jack: “You think politicians can earn trust again?”

Jeeny: “Not by being perfect. By being transparent. By failing in the open. People don’t need saints, Jack — they just need truth, even if it trembles.”

Jack: “And if truth costs them everything?”

Jeeny: “Then at least it was worth the price. Trust built on lies is already bankrupt.”

Host: The lights of the café dimmed. Outside, a faint breeze stirred the puddles, scattering the last reflections of day. The world looked cleaner somehow — fragile, but honest.

Jack: “You really believe one person can change the way people see politics?”

Jeeny: “One person can’t change everything. But they can change the tone. Like Zelensky — he turned apathy into participation. Even in war, he reminded people what leadership sounds like when it stops pretending.”

Jack: “And what does it sound like?”

Jeeny: (softly) “Human.”

Host: For a long while, they sat without speaking. The radio played faintly again — the sound of a leader’s voice somewhere far away, clear, tired, but alive.

Jack reached for his coat. Jeeny stood too. As they stepped outside, the air was cool, the streetlights gleaming against the wet pavement.

Host: They walked side by side through the quiet city, their reflections moving beside them — two small figures beneath towering glass and steel.

Jeeny’s voice broke the silence:

Jeeny: “Maybe trust isn’t something you rebuild. Maybe it’s something you practice — one truth at a time.”

Jack: “And if no one listens?”

Jeeny: (smiles) “Then you speak louder. Or softer. But you keep speaking.”

Host: The night settled around them like a confession. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell rang — not for victory, but for persistence.

And as the last echoes faded into the dark, Jack looked up at the skyline — and for the first time in a long time, he didn’t see glass and politics. He saw windows.

Open ones.

The kind that let light in.