I would rather exercise than read a newspaper.

Host: The morning fog still lingered over the city, a soft grey veil that blurred the edges of buildings and turned streetlights into faint, trembling orbs. The air smelled of concrete, coffee, and rain that had passed before dawn.

Host: Inside a small gym tucked beneath an old apartment block, the lights buzzed with sleepy defiance. Jack was already there — sweat on his brow, muscles tight beneath a faded grey shirt. The sound of the treadmill hummed like an impatient heart.

Host: Jeeny arrived a few minutes later, holding a folded newspaper, still smelling faintly of ink and fresh print. She stood by the entrance, watching him.

Jeeny: “You’re here early again.”

Jack: “Better this than sitting around reading about how the world’s falling apart.”

Host: He didn’t slow his pace. His eyes were fixed on the mirrored wall, where his own reflection seemed like a rival refusing to yield.

Jeeny: “You sound like Kim Alexis,” she said lightly, opening the newspaper. “‘I would rather exercise than read a newspaper.’”

Jack: “She’s right.”

Host: The treadmill beeped; he slowed, stepping off with a heavy exhale. Sweat rolled down his temple, catching the light like a bead of truth.

Jack: “At least exercise gives you something you can control. The world — the news — that’s just noise you can’t fix.”

Jeeny: “But ignoring it doesn’t make it go away,” she said, flipping a page. “If you stop reading, you stop knowing. And when people stop knowing, they stop caring.”

Jack: “Knowing doesn’t mean caring. Most people just read so they can complain. Every headline’s a new excuse to do nothing.”

Host: She closed the paper gently and walked toward him, the faint rustle of the pages like distant thunder.

Jeeny: “That’s cynical, even for you. Maybe you read it to understand what needs to change.”

Jack: “Or maybe I don’t need to drown in misery before sunrise. Every morning it’s the same — war, corruption, famine, scandal. I’d rather push my body than poison my mind.”

Host: The gym was nearly empty, save for the quiet thud of distant footsteps and the low rumble of an air conditioner. A single ray of sunlight cut through the fogged window, slicing across the floor where they stood.

Jeeny: “But that’s exactly why we need to read,” she countered. “To face the discomfort. To stay awake to what’s real, even when it hurts.”

Jack: “You think reading about the world makes you awake? It just makes people anxious, paralyzed. There’s a difference between awareness and obsession.”

Jeeny: “So what’s the alternative? Running from it?”

Jack: “Running through it,” he said simply, grabbing a towel. “You’d be surprised how much the world makes sense after a few miles.”

Host: She watched him, silent for a moment. The radio above played faintly — an old song about time slipping away. The words were muffled, but the melody held a kind of weary truth.

Jeeny: “You make exercise sound like therapy.”

Jack: “It is. Movement’s honest. The body doesn’t lie — it shows you exactly what you’ve earned, what you’ve neglected. The news only shows you what’s broken, never what’s built.”

Jeeny: “But the body ages, Jack. You can train it, but it fades. Knowledge — awareness — that’s what outlives you.”

Jack: “And what good is awareness if all it gives you is despair?”

Host: His voice echoed faintly off the walls. A barbell clanged somewhere in the distance — the sound sharp, final.

Jeeny: “Despair isn’t the end of awareness. It’s the beginning of responsibility.”

Jack: “Responsibility’s overrated.”

Jeeny: “So you’d rather sweat than think?”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Host: There was a spark of humor in his eyes, but beneath it — something more fragile. Exhaustion. The kind that comes not from running, but from running away.

Jeeny: “You can’t escape the world forever,” she said softly.

Jack: “I’m not escaping. I’m surviving. There’s a difference.”

Host: A brief silence fell between them. The kind filled not with distance, but reflection. Jeeny folded the newspaper slowly, her hands careful, deliberate.

Jeeny: “You know, exercise and reading aren’t opposites. They’re both ways of staying alive. One keeps your body moving. The other keeps your mind from rusting.”

Jack: “Maybe. But when the mind’s full of headlines, sometimes it’s better to let the heart do the thinking.”

Jeeny: “You talk like the world’s an illness.”

Jack: “It is. The news just reminds you how contagious it’s become.”

Host: A few drops of sweat fell to the floor, forming small dark circles. The sound of them hitting the mat was almost tender.

Jeeny: “And yet you still live in it. You still hope it gets better.”

Jack: “Hope’s a luxury. Discipline — that’s what keeps me breathing.”

Jeeny: “But discipline without awareness is blindness, Jack.”

Host: Her words landed like quiet stones on water. He didn’t respond immediately; his gaze fell to the floor, tracing the cracks in the tiles.

Jack: “You ever notice,” he said at last, “that the people who talk most about changing the world are the ones who rarely get their hands dirty? Maybe the best way to care about the world is to start by mastering yourself.”

Jeeny: “And maybe the best way to master yourself is to understand the world that shapes you.”

Host: They stood facing each other now — breath against breath, silence like a fragile thread.

Jack: “You really think reading the paper makes you wiser?”

Jeeny: “Not wiser. Just awake. Every story is a mirror — not of them, but of us.”

Host: He smiled faintly. “And what does today’s mirror say?”

Jeeny: “It says we’re tired,” she whispered. “Hungry for peace but addicted to conflict. And maybe that’s why exercise feels easier — because it hurts cleanly.”

Host: He looked at her for a long moment, something soft flickering in his eyes. Then he nodded slowly.

Jack: “Hurts cleanly,” he repeated. “I like that.”

Jeeny: “Of course you do,” she teased gently. “You live for the pain that makes sense.”

Jack: “And you live for the truth that doesn’t.”

Host: They both laughed then — quietly, like two weary soldiers who’d forgotten which side they were on.

Host: The fog outside was lifting. Through the wide windows, the first clear light of morning spilled into the room, painting their faces gold.

Jeeny: “Maybe balance is the trick,” she said. “Run in the morning, read at night.”

Jack: “And if the headlines ruin my sleep?”

Jeeny: “Then dream harder,” she said, smiling.

Host: He shook his head, but the faintest smile betrayed him. The world outside was stirring — cars, voices, life resuming.

Host: And there, in the quiet hum of treadmills and truth, two philosophies had met — one of motion, one of mind — and found that both were born of the same hunger: to feel alive without drowning in what it means.

Host: As they left the gym, the sunlight hit their backs, strong and golden. Behind them, the machines still hummed, the newspaper still lay folded on the bench — a symbol of two paths converging in one simple truth: that sometimes, to understand life, you must both run through it and read about it.