If you want to make enemies, try to change something.

Host: The office tower slept uneasily against the city skyline — a concrete cathedral of ambition glowing in the dim neon hush of midnight. Floor-to-ceiling windows reflected a storm of rain and light, the kind that makes everything seem both alive and trapped.

Inside, the boardroom was a battlefield disguised as civility. The table — long, sleek, expensive — bore the remnants of a war fought not with fists, but with words and silence.

Jack sat at one end, his sleeves rolled up, the ghost of exhaustion written across his face. Across from him, Jeeny lingered in the doorway, the last to leave, watching him the way one watches a man trying to talk a flame out of burning.

Jeeny: “You really did it, didn’t you?”

Jack: “Depends on what it is.”

Jeeny: “You told them we’re changing everything.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Someone had to.”

Jeeny: “And now half the floor hates you.”

Jack: “If they hate me, it means they finally noticed I exist.”

Host: The rain pressed harder against the windows, a percussion of unease. Somewhere below, sirens wailed faintly, distant as conscience.

Jeeny: “You ever think maybe there’s a reason people resist change?”

Jack: “Yeah. Fear. Laziness. Comfort. Pick one.”

Jeeny: “Or survival.”

Jack: “You sound like my old boss.”

Jeeny: “He’s retired.”

Jack: “Yeah — peacefully. I don’t think I’ll get that luxury.”

Host: She crossed the room, poured two glasses of whiskey, and set one in front of him.

Jeeny: “Woodrow Wilson once said, ‘If you want to make enemies, try to change something.’”

Jack: (snorts) “The man understood offices better than politics.”

Jeeny: “You think he was talking about politics?”

Jack: “He was talking about human nature.”

Jeeny: “Then why do it?”

Jack: “Because doing nothing’s worse.”

Host: He took a sip, the amber light flickering in his eyes — that rare mix of weariness and defiance.

Jeeny: “You know, you remind me of those people who light fires just to see what still burns after.”

Jack: “You make that sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. It’s lonely.”

Jack: “Yeah. But necessary.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked loudly now, as if time itself had an opinion.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? Everyone in there agreed something had to change. Everyone. But the second I said how, they looked at me like I’d suggested burning the building down.”

Jeeny: “You didn’t say how — you said now. That’s the part that scares people.”

Jack: “Change always sounds good until it asks for effort.”

Jeeny: “Or accountability.”

Jack: “Exactly. They love revolution in theory, not in schedule.”

Host: She walked to the window, tracing a finger through the fogged glass, revealing the skyline’s trembling reflection.

Jeeny: “You know, change isn’t the enemy. It’s the mirror. It shows people who they really are — afraid, uncertain, fragile.”

Jack: “And they’d rather break the mirror than face it.”

Jeeny: “Yes.”

Host: The silence stretched. Outside, thunder grumbled across the city — distant, patient, inevitable.

Jack: “You ever wonder why we fear change so much?”

Jeeny: “Because it’s the death of the known. And people would rather live in decay than die in discovery.”

Jack: “That’s dark.”

Jeeny: “It’s true.”

Jack: “You think I made a mistake?”

Jeeny: “No. You made a disturbance.”

Jack: “Same thing.”

Jeeny: “Not quite. Mistakes fade. Disturbances echo.”

Host: He leaned back, running a hand through his hair, a dry laugh escaping.

Jack: “You make rebellion sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “It is — if you survive it.”

Jack: “You think I will?”

Jeeny: “Depends. Are you changing things because you believe in better — or because you hate the way things are?”

Jack: “What’s the difference?”

Jeeny: “Intent. One builds. The other burns.”

Host: He paused, eyes distant, the kind of pause that reveals truth before words do.

Jack: “Maybe I’m both. Maybe you have to burn a little to build anything real.”

Jeeny: “Then be careful not to mistake the smoke for progress.”

Host: The storm outside broke open, lightning slashing briefly through the clouds — a violent flash illuminating the city and their faces alike.

Jack: “You know, Wilson was right. Try to change something, and people turn on you. But maybe that’s the price.”

Jeeny: “Of what?”

Jack: “Integrity. Vision. Growth. Take your pick.”

Jeeny: “Or isolation.”

Jack: “You sound like you pity me.”

Jeeny: “No. I just know what it costs.”

Host: She set her glass down and moved closer, her voice soft but unwavering.

Jeeny: “Change isn’t about enemies, Jack. It’s about endurance. The question isn’t who hates you — it’s who stays after the dust settles.”

Jack: “And what if no one does?”

Jeeny: “Then you rebuild. Alone, if you have to. That’s what real leaders do.”

Host: He looked at her, something raw flickering in his eyes — a mix of gratitude and grief.

Jack: “You ever get tired of being the voice of reason?”

Jeeny: “Only when no one listens.”

Jack: “I’m listening.”

Jeeny: “Then don’t mistake opposition for failure. The first sound of progress is usually protest.”

Host: The rain outside softened again, now falling with a rhythm almost like applause. The city shimmered, cleansed, uncertain, alive.

Jack: “You think change is ever worth it?”

Jeeny: “Always. But it hurts. That’s the tax on transformation.”

Jack: “You mean the enemies?”

Jeeny: “Yes. They’re proof you moved something that mattered.”

Host: He stood, walked to the window, and looked out over the city — the reflection of lightning still pulsing faintly on the glass.

Jack: “Then maybe that’s how I’ll measure my life. Not by who applauds me… but by what resists me.”

Jeeny: “That’s dangerous math.”

Jack: “It’s honest.”

Host: She smiled faintly, picking up her coat.

Jeeny: “You know what Wilson didn’t say?”

Jack: “What’s that?”

Jeeny: “That sometimes the biggest enemy you’ll make is yourself — because change doesn’t just threaten others. It threatens who you used to be.”

Host: He nodded slowly, the weight of her words settling like dust in the golden light.

As she left the room, the sound of her footsteps echoed — steady, fading, human.

Jack turned back to the storm, the city stretching before him like a battlefield reborn.

And as the thunder rolled one last time, Woodrow Wilson’s words returned — not as a warning, but as a challenge carved into the night:

“If you want to make enemies, try to change something.”

Because to change is to confront comfort,
to disturb the still water of habit and fear.

Every act of courage invites resistance,
every truth unsettles the peace of denial.

But in the noise of defiance,
in the clash between what is and what must be,
the world trembles — and grows.

Change isn’t the enemy.
It’s the evidence that we’re still alive.