I work every day, and every year I spend seven months away from

Host: The track was empty now.
The floodlights burned pale and distant, throwing long, trembling shadows across the asphalt — the kind of light that belongs more to ghosts than to people. The faint smell of rain, rubber, and sweat hung in the cool night air, clinging to silence like an echo that refused to die.

Jack sat alone on the lowest bench of the bleachers, his head bent forward, hands clasped, elbows resting on his knees. His breathing was steady but heavy — the rhythm of a man who’d been running for too long without knowing why.

Jeeny approached slowly from the gate, her coat pulled tight, her steps soft against the track. She didn’t speak at first. She just stood there, watching him — the lone figure beneath the stadium lights, swallowed by the kind of stillness that follows too much motion.

Jeeny: “You know what Mo Farah once said?” Her voice was quiet, almost apologetic.
“I work every day, and every year I spend seven months away from my family. I miss my kids’ birthdays, and those are times I will never be able to go back on and share with them. That kills me.”

Jack: without looking up “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

Host: His voice was calm, but the weight in it was unmistakable — that slow ache that hides behind every great accomplishment.

Jeeny: “You’ve been out here all night. Again.”

Jack: shrugs, eyes still fixed on the dark curve of the track “It’s the only place where the noise makes sense. Out there…” he gestures vaguely toward the city beyond the fence, glowing faintly in the distance “everything feels like it’s happening to someone else. Here, at least the pain’s mine.”

Jeeny: steps closer, sitting beside him “That’s not pain, Jack. That’s punishment.”

Jack: smiles faintly, bitterly “You say that like there’s a difference.”

Host: The floodlights hummed overhead, their buzz filling the silence that followed. A wind stirred through the empty stands, carrying with it the faint metallic sound of a loose chain clinking against a gate.

Jeeny: “You miss them, don’t you?”

Jack: finally looks at her, eyes tired “Every damn day.”
pause
“You know, when you’re chasing something — a dream, a title, a record — you tell yourself it’s for them. That someday they’ll understand why you weren’t there. Why the seat at the recital was empty. Why the birthday candles went out without you.”
His voice cracks, just barely. “You think the finish line will make it worth it. But it doesn’t. You just cross it — and realize you’re still alone.”

Jeeny: softly “That’s the lie of ambition, Jack. It tells you sacrifice will pay you back. But some things don’t deal in refunds.”

Host: He laughed quietly — not out of humor, but out of disbelief. The kind of laugh that sounds like it’s holding back tears.

Jack: “I used to think sacrifice was noble. You know? That giving everything made you strong. But it just... takes.”

Jeeny: “Because strength without balance isn’t strength. It’s survival.”

Host: Jeeny looked out over the empty track — the lanes glowing faintly in the floodlight, each one a line drawn toward something distant and invisible.

Jeeny: “Mo Farah’s right. Time doesn’t forgive. You can’t run back to a missed birthday, or re-lace your shoes around the moment your kid learned to ride a bike.”

Jack: “You sound like you’ve lived it.”

Jeeny: smiles sadly “I’ve been the one waiting at the door.”

Host: The words hit him harder than he expected. For a moment, neither of them moved. The hum of the lights grew louder — or maybe it was just the silence amplifying everything else.

Jack: “It’s funny. Everyone talks about glory like it’s gold. But it’s made of guilt. Every medal’s just a reminder of who you let down to earn it.”

Jeeny: “Then why keep doing it?”

Jack: “Because it’s all I know. Because stopping feels like dying.”

Jeeny: “And running feels like living?”

Jack: after a long pause “Running feels like forgetting.”

Host: A gust of wind swept through, lifting the dust around their feet. Somewhere in the distance, a flag rattled against its pole — the only applause left for a man who’d long since run past his audience.

Jeeny: “You know, it’s not wrong to chase what you love. It’s just... dangerous to forget who you love while chasing it.”

Jack: quietly “You think they’d forgive me?”

Jeeny: “Your kids? They already have. It’s yourself you can’t forgive.”

Host: He looked down at his hands — calloused, trembling slightly. He flexed them, as if testing whether they still belonged to him.

Jack: “You think it ever balances out? The hours you miss, the moments you lose?”

Jeeny: “No. But maybe it transforms. Maybe the love you couldn’t give then finds its way back later — in a story, a song, a letter, a change in who you are.”

Jack: half-smiling, eyes glistening faintly “You always find the poetry in the wreckage.”

Jeeny: “Someone has to. Otherwise it’s just wreckage.”

Host: A distant siren wailed through the city — rising, falling, fading. Jack’s breathing matched its rhythm, steady but uneven. He stood slowly, his back stiff, his shoulders slightly twisted from years of carrying more than weight.

Jack: “I wonder if that’s what Farah meant. That the pain isn’t the running — it’s realizing what you’re running away from.”

Jeeny: “And what you’re running toward — isn’t always waiting.”

Jack: nods slowly “Yeah.”
He looks out at the track one last time.
“You can outrun your body, your limits, even your fear. But not time.”

Jeeny: “No. Time’s the only thing that doesn’t chase. It just waits.”

Host: The floodlights flickered, dimmed, then shut off one by one. The darkness that followed was not cruel — it was cleansing, like the final act of a performance that had gone on too long.

Jeeny stood beside him, their silhouettes now only outlines in the night.

Jeeny: “You can’t go back, Jack. But you can go home.”

Jack: a beat “You think they’ll still know me?”

Jeeny: “They won’t remember the man who left. They’ll meet the one who returned.”

Host: And for the first time that night, Jack smiled — not wide, not certain, but real. A fragile thing, like dawn creeping into a life that had forgotten what morning looked like.

They walked together toward the gate, the sound of gravel crunching under their steps. The world behind them — the lights, the ghosts, the races — began to fade into silence.

The camera lingered on the empty track, stretching endlessly into the dark, like a question that no one could finish asking.

And over it, the faint echo of Mo Farah’s truth lingered —
that even the fastest man alive cannot outrun the moments he’s missed.

Because some distances are not measured in miles,
but in birthdays, goodbyes,
and the soft, unfixable ache
of love deferred.