If you keep on saying things are going to be bad, you have a good

Title: The Self-Fulfilling Shadow

Host: The diner was nearly empty. A neon sign blinked outside — half-lit, half-forgotten — its pink glow bleeding through the rain-streaked window. The smell of coffee and cold fries lingered in the air, mingling with the soft murmur of a radio playing something old enough to sound eternal.

Jack sat in a corner booth, coat slung over the cracked leather seat beside him. His hands wrapped around a mug he hadn’t sipped from in minutes. His eyes were sharp but distant — the look of a man staring into a memory too familiar to still surprise him.

Across from him, Jeeny toyed with her spoon, stirring nothing into her cup. Her voice broke the hum of the diner softly, like a note placed carefully in silence.

Jeeny: “Isaac Bashevis Singer once said — ‘If you keep on saying things are going to be bad, you have a good chance of being a prophet.’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “So pessimists are just optimists with better aim?”

Host: His tone was wry, but there was weight beneath the joke — the kind of humor that hides its bruises.

Jeeny: “No. I think he meant that expectation shapes outcome. The world bends toward belief — especially the dark kind.”

Jack: “Then the universe has a sad sense of humor.”

Jeeny: “Or a perfect mirror. Maybe it just reflects whatever we hand it.”

Jack: “So we doom ourselves by narration.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We become the authors of our own downfall — line by line.”

Host: The rain thickened, each drop sounding like a small prophecy against the glass.

Jack: “You really believe that? That words can build or break the world?”

Jeeny: “I do. Words are the architecture of thought. Once you repeat something enough, your life starts designing itself around it.”

Jack: “Then why does honesty sound so much like negativity these days?”

Jeeny: “Because we’ve forgotten the difference between being realistic and being resigned.”

Jack: “And you think I’m the latter.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “I think you like to call surrender wisdom.”

Jack: “And I think you mistake denial for faith.”

Host: The lights above flickered once, briefly turning their faces into silhouettes — two philosophies arguing in chiaroscuro.

Jeeny: “Singer wasn’t mocking pessimists, you know. He was warning them. If you keep expecting the storm, you’ll stop seeing the sunlight even when it’s there.”

Jack: “And if you expect only sunlight, you’ll die unprepared when the storm hits.”

Jeeny: “That’s not preparation. That’s paranoia.”

Jack: “No, it’s experience. Hope’s a luxury most realists can’t afford.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe realism isn’t wisdom — maybe it’s exhaustion wearing logic as disguise.”

Host: Her words landed quietly, like soft footsteps on sacred ground. The kind that didn’t demand agreement — only recognition.

Jack: “You know, the irony is — he’s right. Predicting doom is the easiest way to be right. The world keeps offering proof.”

Jeeny: “But being right isn’t the same as being alive.”

Jack: “Sometimes it’s the only thing left.”

Jeeny: “That’s not truth, Jack. That’s despair dressed in statistics.”

Jack: “Despair’s honest.”

Jeeny: “So is love.”

Jack: “Love doesn’t last.”

Jeeny: “Neither does despair. That’s what makes both human.”

Host: The radio crackled, the singer’s voice drifting in — something bluesy, raw, and tired. It filled the spaces between them like a weary sigh.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how people who expect bad things always end up finding them?”

Jack: “That’s because they’re paying attention.”

Jeeny: “No — because they stop paying attention to anything else. Fear edits reality.”

Jack: “So optimism’s a survival strategy?”

Jeeny: “No. Optimism’s rebellion. It’s refusing to give the world your surrender in advance.”

Jack: “And what if you’re wrong?”

Jeeny: “Then at least I’ll have lived a better lie.”

Host: Her eyes met his — steady, unwavering, lit from within by a quiet defiance.

Jack: “You make it sound noble — believing in good while standing in rubble.”

Jeeny: “It is noble. Because hope’s hardest when it’s least logical.”

Jack: “And you think faith makes reality kinder?”

Jeeny: “No. It makes you kinder — and that’s enough to change the parts of reality that matter.”

Jack: “You talk like kindness is an immune system.”

Jeeny: “It is. Without it, we rot from the inside out.”

Jack: “And yet, the rot wins more often than not.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But decay feeds the soil. Something still grows.”

Host: The steam from their cups rose slowly, curling into invisible patterns — soft metaphors for the unseen designs that shape every life.

Jeeny: “Singer was right. When you speak doom, you build it. You give it form, and fear fills in the gaps. Prophets of despair never lack evidence — because they create it.”

Jack: “So you think I’m building my own bad luck.”

Jeeny: “I think you mistake prediction for protection.”

Jack: (after a pause) “And you mistake faith for control.”

Jeeny: “Faith doesn’t control, Jack. It coexists. It lets chaos exist without letting it define you.”

Jack: “That sounds exhausting.”

Jeeny: “It’s discipline — the art of not surrendering your imagination to fear.”

Host: The rain began to ease, leaving streaks of silver across the window. The streetlights outside glowed like distant lanterns guiding the lost.

Jack: “You know, there’s something seductive about cynicism. It feels intelligent. You predict failure, and when it happens, you get to feel superior — not broken.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But that’s not intelligence. It’s armor. And armor doesn’t just protect you — it isolates you.”

Jack: “And faith doesn’t?”

Jeeny: “Faith opens you up. Which means it breaks you, yes — but it also lets light in.”

Jack: “That’s a poetic way of saying you enjoy being vulnerable.”

Jeeny: “I don’t enjoy it. I endure it — because it’s the only way to stay human.”

Host: The waitress passed by, refilling their cups with quiet understanding, as though she’d heard a thousand versions of this same conversation before.

Jack: “You really think our thoughts shape the world?”

Jeeny: “Not the whole world. Just our share of it. And if enough people share hope, the math starts to change.”

Jack: “So collective optimism — the antidote to prophecy.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We’ve been writing tragedies for centuries. Maybe it’s time someone wrote a miracle.”

Jack: “You think miracles can be manufactured?”

Jeeny: “No. But they can be invited.”

Host: He looked down into his cup — the coffee swirling in soft concentric circles. For the first time that night, his reflection wasn’t scowling back.

Jack: “You know, Singer’s quote might’ve been a joke — but there’s truth hiding in it. Words do shape destiny. Maybe prophecy’s just psychology wearing a crown.”

Jeeny: “And the crown’s heavy because belief gives it weight.”

Jack: “So, if pessimism can summon ruin…”

Jeeny: “Then optimism can summon redemption.”

Jack: (smiling) “That sounds like faith again.”

Jeeny: “Call it what you want. I call it refusing to let the ending write itself.”

Host: The rain had stopped completely. The neon sign outside flickered once, then glowed steady — pink, hopeful, alive.

Host: And as they sat there, two silhouettes in a diner at the edge of the world, Isaac Bashevis Singer’s words echoed through the quiet — not as warning, but as wisdom carved in human truth:

That prophecy is not prediction,
but projection.

That every whispered fear is a seed,
and every word — dark or light —
grows into something we must live beside.

That hope is not naivety,
but resistance —
the rebellion of imagination against despair.

The lights dimmed.
The street gleamed.

And as Jack rose to leave,
he looked back at Jeeny and said softly —

“Maybe being a prophet isn’t the problem.
Maybe it’s time we start predicting joy.”

Jeeny smiled — quiet, certain.

And outside,
the world,
as if overhearing,
began to shine just a little brighter.