I was talking to one of my aunties at Christmas and she said she

Host:
The winter rain had just stopped, leaving the streets slick and glimmering like black glass. Christmas lights hung tiredly across the city, their colors muted by fog and reflection. Inside a small pub tucked between brick alleys, the air smelled of pine, smoke, and nostalgia — that distinct mixture of memory and alcohol that only December brings.

Jack sat near the window, his hands wrapped around a glass of whisky, the light catching the faint lines around his eyes. His grey gaze was softer tonight, less the cynic and more the man remembering who he used to be. Across from him, Jeeny cradled a mug of mulled wine, the steam curling between them like a ghost of warmth. Outside, carolers’ distant voices rose and fell — imperfect, human, sincere.

Jeeny: [softly] “James McAvoy once said — ‘I was talking to one of my aunties at Christmas, and she said she didn’t think it was ever in my nature to go against the grain, that I was always a good boy. I think she was right — I did always want to be good.’”
Jack: [smirking faintly] “Ah, the eternal curse of the ‘good boy.’ Sounds harmless until you realize it’s a kind of prison.”
Jeeny: [tilting her head] “A prison built by approval. You know it well, don’t you?”
Jack: [grinning without humor] “Too well. My childhood was full of gold stars and silent expectations. Be polite, be strong, don’t argue — the invisible commandments of decency.”
Jeeny: [gently] “And did you obey?”
Jack: “Obeyed? I practically made a religion out of it.”

Host:
The pub’s fire crackled, its warmth throwing dancing shadows along the wooden walls. The Christmas tree in the corner flickered, some bulbs burnt out, others still stubbornly shining — like people, like promises.

Jeeny: “So you wanted to be good. What does that mean to you now?”
Jack: [after a pause] “It means I lived half my life terrified of disappointing people. Being good was never about virtue — it was about being loved.”
Jeeny: [nodding slowly] “You confuse goodness with validation.”
Jack: [leaning back] “Don’t we all? Even rebels need applause. It’s just that some of us learned to earn it quietly.”
Jeeny: [smiling faintly] “And others learned to confuse rebellion with honesty.”
Jack: “You mean you.”
Jeeny: “Maybe. But I’d rather be judged for truth than praised for politeness.”

Host:
A group of strangers laughed nearby, their cheer a little too loud, a little too forced — the sound of people drinking away the ache of another year. Jack watched them, his reflection flickering in the glass.

Jack: “You know, it’s funny — the world praises you for being good, but punishes you the moment your goodness becomes inconvenient.”
Jeeny: [softly] “Because true goodness doesn’t obey. It chooses.”
Jack: [raising an eyebrow] “You’re saying morality’s a rebellion?”
Jeeny: “Of course it is. Real goodness demands courage, not compliance.”
Jack: [grinning] “Tell that to my aunt. She thought good boys were the ones who never talked back.”
Jeeny: [smiling] “Maybe that’s why so few good men stay good — they mistake silence for virtue.”

Host:
The wind rattled the windowpane, carrying faint echoes of laughter and sleigh bells from the street. Jack swirled the whisky in his glass, watching the amber light twist inside like liquid time.

Jack: “You ever feel like being good is just a performance? Like we spend our lives auditioning for people who stopped watching long ago?”
Jeeny: “Maybe. But there’s a difference between performing goodness and embodying it. One seeks applause, the other seeks peace.”
Jack: [thoughtful] “Peace. That’s harder to earn than approval.”
Jeeny: “Because peace requires forgiveness. Especially of yourself.”
Jack: [quietly] “I was raised to believe forgiveness was for the weak.”
Jeeny: [softly] “And now?”
Jack: [after a pause] “Now I think it’s the only kind of strength that lasts.”

Host:
The fire dimmed, its embers glowing faintly — small, stubborn flames refusing to die. Jeeny leaned closer, the candlelight catching the curve of her face, her expression both gentle and fierce.

Jeeny: “You know, McAvoy’s line isn’t about obedience. It’s about the longing to be good — not moral by someone else’s definition, but genuine in your own skin.”
Jack: “You make it sound noble.”
Jeeny: “It is. To want goodness in a world built on cynicism — that’s rebellion enough.”
Jack: [half-laughing] “Rebellion through decency? That’s a quiet revolution.”
Jeeny: “The quiet ones always last longer. Loud revolutions burn bright and end fast. The quiet ones rebuild the world when no one’s watching.”

Host:
The pub door opened, letting in a brief gust of cold air and laughter from the street. The sound of rain returned faintly, tapping against the window.

Jack: [staring into his glass] “You ever notice how the word ‘good’ changes as you grow older? As a kid, it meant obedience. As an adult, it means compromise. And somewhere in between, it loses its meaning entirely.”
Jeeny: [gently] “Unless you redefine it.”
Jack: “How?”
Jeeny: “By asking not what’s expected, but what’s right. By being kind without needing to be approved of.”
Jack: [softly] “And if kindness costs you?”
Jeeny: “Then it’s real.”

Host:
A clock chimed from the corner of the pub, marking the approach of midnight. The bartender dimmed the lights slightly, and the room seemed to exhale. Outside, the fog thickened, curling around the lampposts like smoke.

Jack: [leaning forward] “You think it’s possible to stay good — really good — without the world grinding it out of you?”
Jeeny: [after a pause] “Only if your goodness grows teeth.”
Jack: [smiling faintly] “Teeth?”
Jeeny: “Yes. Compassion without boundaries, love without backbone — they crumble. You have to be strong enough to stay gentle.”
Jack: [nodding slowly] “Strong enough to stay gentle... I like that.”
Jeeny: “Goodness isn’t weakness, Jack. It’s resistance. It’s choosing light when darkness looks easier.”

Host:
A couple kissed beneath the Christmas lights outside, their silhouettes framed in gold. Inside, the pub had quieted, leaving only the crackle of fire and the hum of conversation.

Jack looked at Jeeny — not as someone arguing philosophy, but as someone who had lived it.

Jack: [quietly] “You know, I used to think being good meant pleasing people. Now I think it means not losing yourself trying to.”
Jeeny: [smiling softly] “Then maybe you’ve finally learned what your aunt meant — that your nature wasn’t about obedience. It was about sincerity.”
Jack: “And sincerity’s rare.”
Jeeny: “That’s why it matters.”

Host:
The lights dimmed further, the night outside folding into stillness. Jack raised his glass, not in toast, but in reflection.

The whisky caught the light one last time — amber, fragile, and true.

And in that quiet moment,
the truth of James McAvoy’s words settled between them like falling snow —

that goodness is not rebellion or obedience,
but a choice renewed in every moment of doubt;
that to be good is not to please,
but to persist in gentleness even when the world mistakes it for weakness.

For fame fades,
and rebellion exhausts itself,
but sincerity endures,
softly — like candlelight that refuses to go out.

And as the clock struck midnight,
Jack finally smiled — not the smile of performance,
but of peace — the quiet kind,
the kind that doesn’t need to prove it’s good.