If the facts don't fit the theory, change the facts.

Host: The office was dark except for the cold glow of a computer screen. Papers lay scattered like fallen leaves across a metal desk. The city hummed faintly outside — a constant, indifferent vibration.

Jack sat in his chair, spinning slowly, eyes fixed on the half-finished report glowing on the monitor. Jeeny leaned against the wall near the window, the light from the street below painting her face in fractured gold and blue.

The air felt heavy, like truth had been locked somewhere in the filing cabinet.

Jack: “Someone once said, ‘If the facts don’t fit the theory, change the facts.’”

Jeeny: “That’s the motto of half the world right now.”

Jack: “Yeah. And the tragedy of the other half — the ones who still believe the facts matter.”

Host: The computer fan whirred louder, drowning out the silence that followed. Outside, a billboard flickered — an ad for a smartphone, a politician, a perfume — it didn’t matter which. It was all the same grammar of persuasion.

Jeeny: “You know, whoever said that probably thought they were being clever. But it’s dangerous. That’s how lies evolve — they dress themselves in confidence and call it adjustment.”

Jack: “And people applaud. Because we like theories that comfort us more than facts that confront us.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Truth used to be a pursuit. Now it’s a product. Theories are the packaging.”

Host: The rain began, tapping against the glass — small, persistent truths trying to be heard.

Jack: “You think we ever really cared about facts? Or have we always been editing reality to fit the story we wanted?”

Jeeny: “Always. We call it culture when we agree on the same lie.”

Jack: “That’s cynical.”

Jeeny: “That’s history.”

Host: The light from the monitor flickered across Jack’s face — a soft, pale blue that made him look both thoughtful and tired.

Jack: “You know, in science, the quote’s ironic. Einstein supposedly said it as a joke. But in politics, media, religion — they took it literally. They turned irony into instruction.”

Jeeny: “Because control isn’t about truth. It’s about narrative.”

Jack: “And narrative is just the theory that refuses to die.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Theories are immortal. Facts are disposable.”

Host: The clock ticked — slow, methodical, almost mocking.

Jack: “So we live in a world built on selective sight. Everyone’s editing reality — cropping out the contradictions.”

Jeeny: “We used to say, ‘I’ll believe it when I see it.’ Now it’s, ‘I’ll see it when I believe it.’”

Jack: “So truth bends to desire.”

Jeeny: “And facts become casualties of comfort.”

Host: The rain outside grew heavier, streaking the glass like dissolving ink.

Jack: “You know, I miss when people were wrong honestly. When being mistaken meant something. Now everyone just changes the data.”

Jeeny: “Because being wrong is unbearable in a world that worships certainty. Admitting error feels like extinction.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s the problem — we equated truth with status instead of humility.”

Jeeny: “And once you do that, you stop learning. You just defend.”

Host: Jeeny walked to the desk, her fingers brushing across the papers — charts, graphs, numbers — all the little fragments of attempted order.

Jeeny: “You ever think about how fragile the truth really is? It doesn’t shout. It just waits. Quietly. Until someone’s brave enough to stop editing.”

Jack: “But in this world, silence loses. You have to sell truth now — package it, brand it, make it sexy.”

Jeeny: “And that’s when it stops being truth.”

Jack: “So maybe the quote isn’t advice. Maybe it’s a warning.”

Jeeny: “It’s both. A reflection of what we do — and a reminder of what we shouldn’t.”

Host: The computer chimed — an email notification, another demand for data, another voice asking for a version of reality that matched their expectations. Jack didn’t open it.

Jeeny: “You know, this is why people stop trusting institutions. Because the facts keep changing to match agendas. People feel gaslit by authority.”

Jack: “And when truth becomes negotiable, faith collapses.”

Jeeny: “And fear rushes in to take its place.”

Host: The rain softened now, its rhythm steady — a kind of fragile honesty against the artificial hum of machines.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? Everyone talks about ‘alternative facts’ like it’s a new invention. But propaganda’s always been a remix — the facts rearranged to make the melody sound hopeful.”

Jeeny: “We’ve always preferred lullabies to wake-up calls.”

Jack: “Yeah. Because comfort feels like truth when you’re tired.”

Jeeny: “But truth isn’t comfortable. It’s corrective.”

Jack: “And correction feels like attack.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why we keep changing the facts — so we don’t have to change ourselves.”

Host: The lights in the office dimmed automatically — motion sensors assuming no one was still awake. The darkness fell gently, leaving only the glow of the screen.

Jack: “You think there’s any way back? To honesty?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not collectively. But individually — yes. One person at a time choosing not to edit their conscience.”

Jack: “So integrity becomes rebellion.”

Jeeny: “It always has been.”

Host: A distant rumble of thunder rolled through the city, low and lingering. The rain outside glittered in the streetlights like falling evidence.

Jack: “You know what’s wild? The truth doesn’t disappear when we change the facts. It just waits — patient, unbending. Like gravity.”

Jeeny: “And one day, it reasserts itself. Always. Theories crumble, but the ground remains.”

Jack: “Even if we build castles on air.”

Jeeny: “Especially then.”

Host: Jeeny turned off the monitor. The room fell into complete darkness — but somehow, it felt clearer that way.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what we’re afraid of — not that the facts won’t fit our theories, but that they might fit us better than we’d like.”

Jack: “Truth as mirror, not weapon.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And mirrors don’t lie. They just wait for the courage to look.”

Host: The rain slowed, almost to silence. The world outside shimmered with faint reflection — puddles of reality waiting to be stepped in.

Jack exhaled softly, a small sound that felt like surrender.

Jack: “So maybe the real change we need isn’t in the facts — but in the faith to face them.”

Jeeny: “And in the humility to admit when the theory was wrong.”

Host: The storm had passed, leaving behind that eerie calm that follows confession. The city hummed again — quieter, but honest.

And as the first light of dawn began to seep through the blinds, the quote — once cynical, once clever — transformed into a truth neither could deny:

That the world doesn’t break when facts contradict theory —
it breaks when we decide the theory matters more.

That to change the facts is to escape the mirror.

And that real courage isn’t in shaping truth to fit desire —
but in letting truth reshape
who we are.