I was brought up with psychics and tarot cards. My mum was always

Host: The pub was nearly empty, the end of a long, rainy night in London. The neon sign outside hummed weakly, its reflection trembling in the wet pavement. Inside, the world had shrunk to a single booth, half a pint of beer, and the faint sound of a jukebox that still believed in love songs.

Jack sat hunched over the table, his coat collar turned up, fingers tracing lazy circles in the condensation on his glass. Across from him, Jeeny leaned back, watching him with a mix of curiosity and quiet amusement.

On the table between them lay a small deck of tarot cards, worn and frayed — an echo of a world that danced between belief and performance.

Jack: “You know what Lee Ryan once said?”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “The guy from Blue? The one with the high notes and the tabloid disasters?”

Jack: “That’s the one. He said, ‘I was brought up with psychics and tarot cards. My mum was always told I was going to be in a boy band and be famous as a singer.’”

Jeeny: “So what? You think fame’s destiny now?”

Jack: “I think it’s funny how much we want to believe someone’s watching — that the stars have a plan, that the cards already know who we’ll become.”

Host: A bus rumbled by outside, sending a ripple of light across the walls. The rain tapped the window like restless fingertips.

Jeeny: “You sound almost nostalgic for prophecy.”

Jack: “Maybe I am. Maybe it’s easier to believe in fate than in chance.”

Jeeny: “Or in hard work.”

Jack: “That too.” (he grinned) “But there’s something comforting in the idea that your story was written before you even learned how to speak it.”

Jeeny: “Even if it’s written by someone else?”

Jack: “Especially then.”

Host: She picked up one of the tarot cards, flipping it between her fingers — The Star. The figure on the card poured water into a pool, naked, serene, eternal.

Jeeny: “You ever notice that destiny only feels poetic when you’re looking backward? In the moment, it’s just chaos with better lighting.”

Jack: “You don’t believe in fate?”

Jeeny: “I believe in patterns. We make meaning out of coincidence because it’s the only way we can stand the randomness.”

Jack: “So what, you think Lee Ryan was lucky?”

Jeeny: “No. I think his mother wanted magic. So she built it for him.”

Host: The candle on the table flickered low. The cards caught its light, shadows of symbols spilling across the tablecloth — swords, cups, wands, pentacles — the language of belief.

Jack: “You ever had your fortune read?”

Jeeny: “Once. A woman in Paris told me I’d find my greatest love in a place of endings.”

Jack: “Did you?”

Jeeny: (after a pause) “Maybe. Or maybe she was talking about myself.”

Host: He smiled faintly, the kind of smile that holds more sorrow than amusement.

Jack: “I used to see a psychic too. My mother dragged me there when I was seventeen. The woman said I’d be a writer — something about words and redemption.”

Jeeny: “She was right.”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe she said that to everyone who looked like they had too many unspoken things.”

Jeeny: “You think destiny’s just psychology dressed in mystery?”

Jack: “Aren’t all beliefs? Religion, art, love — all ways of saying, I need to think this matters.”

Host: The jukebox changed songs — a slow ballad, something half-forgotten from another decade. The melody curled around them like nostalgia finding a home.

Jeeny: “Maybe the cards don’t predict, Jack. Maybe they remind.”

Jack: “Of what?”

Jeeny: “Of what you already know deep down but won’t admit. You pick The Tower when you’re afraid of collapse. You draw The Lovers when you’re lonely. You see what you need to.”

Jack: “So you’re saying prophecy’s just self-awareness in costume.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. But isn’t that beautiful? That we can’t help but search for our reflection in the divine?”

Host: Her eyes glimmered in the candlelight — not with irony, but with empathy. She wasn’t mocking belief. She was mourning what we lose when we stop believing.

Jack: “Still, I envy the faith of people like that — the ones who think the universe keeps an eye on them. Must be nice to wake up thinking destiny owes you a headline.”

Jeeny: “And what do you wake up thinking?”

Jack: “That I owe destiny an apology.”

Host: A soft laugh escaped her lips, genuine and kind.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s your trouble. You think everything’s earned. Some things are just given.”

Jack: “Like love?”

Jeeny: “Like grace. Or luck. Or being born in the right decade to join a boy band.”

Host: The rain softened, turning into a quiet drizzle that whispered along the pavement. Jack picked up a tarot card at random — The Fool. A young man walking toward a cliff, smiling at the sky, a dog barking at his feet.

Jeeny: “That one’s my favorite.”

Jack: “Because he’s about to fall?”

Jeeny: “Because he’s still unafraid.”

Jack: “You think that’s wisdom?”

Jeeny: “No. I think it’s faith disguised as ignorance — the belief that every step, even the dangerous ones, are leading somewhere good.”

Host: He stared at the card, the edges soft from age and handling. For a moment, something like peace crossed his face.

Jack: “You know, maybe Lee Ryan’s mother wasn’t wrong. Maybe she didn’t predict fame. Maybe she created belief — and belief made it real.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Faith isn’t about knowing the future. It’s about daring to live as if the future wants you.”

Host: The lights in the pub flickered once — last call. The bartender began stacking stools in the distance.

Jack slid The Fool back into the deck and smiled at Jeeny, his voice quieter now, sincere.

Jack: “You ever think we’re all just trying to be told who we are — so we don’t have to wonder?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But I think the trick is to listen for the truth after the cards are gone.”

Host: The candle guttered, then went out. They sat for a moment in the soft dark, surrounded by the hum of the sleeping city.

Outside, the rain had stopped. The world smelled of wet earth and clean beginnings.

Jack stood, pulling on his coat, his silhouette briefly caught by the last glimmer of neon light.

Jack: “Maybe destiny isn’t written in stars or cards.”

Jeeny: “No?”

Jack: “Maybe it’s written in the moments we decide to believe — even just for one night.”

Host: Jeeny smiled, the kind that forgives the world for its mysteries.

As they stepped out into the damp air, the street shimmered with reflections — signs, puddles, lives. Somewhere, a soft voice from the jukebox drifted out after them, singing of love, of loss, of the strange faith that carries us forward.

And in that quiet, human music, the tarot cards of fate felt suddenly unnecessary — because in their laughter, in their fragile hope, destiny had already revealed itself:

not as prediction,
but as participation.

Not what will happen —
but what we choose to make sacred by believing.