If you have a chance to accomplish something that will make

Host: The rain had finally stopped, leaving the streets of the old city glistening like molten glass beneath the amber glow of streetlamps. A tram bell echoed in the distance, fading into the humid night. Inside a narrow café tucked between two forgotten bookstores, smoke curled from half-burned candles. The walls, layered with years of coffee stains and handwritten notes, seemed to breathe softly, as if remembering the dreams once spoken there.

Jack sat by the window, his grey eyes fixed on the reflection of people passing outside — silhouettes moving, living, rushing somewhere. Jeeny sat across from him, her fingers gently turning a ceramic cup, her hair still damp from the rain. Between them lay a small book — open to a single quote scribbled on the page:

"If you have a chance to accomplish something that will make things better for people coming behind you, and you don't do that, you are wasting your time on this earth." — Roberto Clemente

Jeeny: “He said that before he died, you know. A baseball player, yes — but more than that, a man who believed in doing something beyond himself.”

Jack: “And he died trying to help others. A plane crash delivering aid to Nicaragua, wasn’t it? Noble, sure. But tragic too. He could’ve stayed home, lived longer, maybe done more — if he hadn’t tried to play hero.”

Host: The flame of the candle flickered, casting shadows over Jack’s cheekbones. Jeeny’s eyes lifted slowly, her voice soft but steady, like rain that refuses to stop.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point, Jack. To risk something for someone who might never even know your name. To leave the world a little less cruel, even if it costs you.”

Jack: “Cost. That’s exactly it. Everything comes at a cost. You spend your life, your energy, your time. You can’t help everyone. The world’s too big, the pain too wide. You fix one hole, three more open.”

Jeeny: “But if you never try, if you just calculate your safety and comfort, what are you really doing here?”

Jack: “Surviving. Isn’t that enough?”

Host: A long pause. The rainwater on the windowpane caught the light, shimmering like tiny stars. Somewhere, a bus engine hummed, fading into the night. The silence between them grew dense, like the air before a storm.

Jeeny: “You think survival is enough? Tell that to the children in war zones, or the farmers losing their land. If those before them hadn’t fought to make things better, you and I wouldn’t even have this coffee, Jack.”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe history just repeats itself. Every generation thinks it’s changing the world, and yet — look around. Greed, corruption, violence — same script, different actors.”

Jeeny: “And still, some actors choose to rewrite the lines.”

Host: Her eyes caught a faint spark, that quiet defiance only believers carry — a light untouched by disillusionment. Jack leaned forward, his voice low, rough, almost weary.

Jack: “Do you know what happens to most people who try to ‘make things better’? They’re forgotten. Their names vanish. Their sacrifices get buried under the next headline.”

Jeeny: “And yet, even if no one remembers them — something in the world shifts. A bridge built. A book written. A child fed. A spark passed on.”

Jack: “You talk like hope is an investment that always pays off. It’s not. Sometimes it’s just loss. Sometimes, no one cares.”

Jeeny: “But you care. Or you wouldn’t be saying this.”

Host: The air around them tightened. The city noise dimmed. Only the heartbeat of their words filled the small room. Jack’s jaw tightened; his fingers tapped restlessly against the table.

Jack: “You think I don’t care? I used to. I worked for one of those nonprofits. We built schools. Cleaned water wells. But you know what I saw? The money vanished. The politicians took their cut. The same kids stayed hungry. That’s when I learned — the world doesn’t want to be saved. It just wants to keep running.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s not the world that needs saving. Maybe it’s us — the ones who stop believing it can be.”

Host: The rain began again — not hard, just a soft whisper against the glass. Jeeny’s voice quivered slightly, but it carried a strength that filled the small café with warmth.

Jeeny: “Clemente didn’t help because it would work. He helped because it was right. Because the measure of a life isn’t how much you earn, but how much you give — even if it changes nothing.”

Jack: “So you’d die for a principle? For an illusion of goodness?”

Jeeny: “If it wakes someone else to believe, yes.”

Host: A gust of wind slipped through the door, scattering napkins and snuffing the candle. The room plunged into shadows. For a moment, only the neon light from outside trembled across their faces — one cold, one soft, both caught in the same storm of thought.

Jack: “You ever wonder if all this ‘doing good’ is just another kind of vanity? A way to pretend we’re not meaningless? Maybe Clemente just couldn’t stand to be ordinary.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he couldn’t stand to be useless.”

Host: The word hung in the air like smoke. Useless. Jack’s eyes flickered — not with anger, but something closer to guilt. He looked away, out toward the street, where an old man in a soaked coat was bending to pick up a dropped bag of apples.

Jeeny rose quietly, walked outside, and helped the man gather them. No words, no drama — just a small, human gesture under the falling rain. Jack watched her, his expression unreadable.

When she came back, her hair clung to her face, and her hands were trembling slightly from the cold.

Jeeny: “That’s all it is, Jack. A little thing that makes it easier for the next person to walk. You don’t have to save the world. Just… move the weight off someone else’s shoulders.”

Jack: “And what if no one does it for you?”

Jeeny: “Then you do it anyway. Because someone once did it for you — even if you never saw their face.”

Host: Jack’s eyes softened. He looked at her as if seeing her for the first time — not just her idealism, but her resolve, her quiet courage. The kind of faith that doesn’t shout, just endures.

Jack: “You think Roberto Clemente knew he wouldn’t make it back?”

Jeeny: “Maybe he did. But he also knew what it would mean to not go. To have the chance to help, and turn away.”

Jack: “So that’s what you call wasting your time on earth.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The rain outside had turned into a mist, curling like breath around the lamps. Jack reached for his coffee, his hand shaking slightly. His voice lowered, breaking the stillness.

Jack: “You know… my father once told me something like that. He worked in the mines. Said, ‘If you ever find a way to make life lighter for the next man, don’t just think about it — do it.’ I guess I forgot.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you just needed reminding.”

Host: The sound of a train rumbled in the distance, a slow, rolling echo that seemed to carry their silence forward. Jack leaned back, exhaling, his grey eyes reflecting the city lights.

Jack: “You’re right, Jeeny. Maybe it’s not about fixing everything. Maybe it’s just about not being the one who looks away.”

Jeeny: “And that’s enough, Jack. That’s more than enough.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back now — the two figures in a dimly lit café, surrounded by the pulse of a city that never stops. Outside, the rain had finally ceased. A thin beam of moonlight broke through the clouds, spilling across the table between them — the place where doubt and faith had just shared a cup of coffee.

As the scene faded, only the quote remained — glowing faintly on the open page like a quiet truth:

"If you have a chance to accomplish something that will make things better for people coming behind you, and you don't do that, you are wasting your time on this earth."