I'm not really into supplements, I mostly try to get it all from

Host: The morning was sharp and clean, the kind of London winter that cuts your breath in half and leaves a taste of metal on the tongue. The sky hung low, the sun diffused like a pale coin behind fog. Outside, the streets pulsed with commuters—each a small engine of caffeine and duty.

Inside a small gym café, the air was thick with espresso and the faint smell of sweat. Blenders whirred, weights clanked somewhere behind the frosted glass, and the sound of distant grunts punctuated the rhythm of modern striving.

Jack sat at a table near the window, long limbs folded neatly, his grey eyes fixed on the steam rising from his black coffee. Jeeny arrived late, cheeks pink from the cold, still in her yoga hoodie, a hint of morning tiredness in her smile.

She sat, ordered nothing. The conversation began the way their mornings always did—without greeting, just thought meeting thought.

Jeeny: “You know what I read last night? Jimi Manuwa said, ‘I’m not really into supplements, I mostly try to get it all from my food. I take multivitamins, vitamin D—which is really important—zinc and magnesium, but that’s about it.’”

Jack: “A man of moderation in a world of obsession.”

Host: His tone was low, even amused, but there was a flicker of irony beneath it—a skepticism honed sharp by too many trends pretending to be truth.

Jeeny: “You sound surprised.”

Jack: “I am. You don’t expect a fighter to talk like a philosopher.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the smartest ones do. You can’t fight if you don’t understand balance.”

Jack: “Balance? No one’s balanced anymore. The fitness world’s just a new religion—protein shakes as sacraments, supplements as psalms. Everyone chasing immortality one capsule at a time.”

Jeeny: “You sound like you’re mocking belief.”

Jack: “I’m mocking dependency. There’s a difference.”

Host: The café door swung open and closed again, letting in a gust of cold air and the sound of the city—horns, footsteps, ambition. On the wall behind them, a TV played silent footage of an MMA match, fists and muscles flickering like a violent ballet.

Jeeny: “Dependency is the price of excess. But you’re wrong—there’s honesty in simplicity. Manuwa’s point wasn’t about rejecting supplements, it was about knowing when enough is enough.”

Jack: “And who decides that?”

Jeeny: “The body does.”

Jack: “The body’s a liar, Jeeny. It tells you you’re fine right before it collapses.”

Jeeny: “Only when you stop listening.”

Jack: “Or when you listen too much. Every instinct, every pain, every craving—we’ve turned them into data. Fitness trackers, DNA diets, personalized vitamins. It’s all noise now. Even wellness became a form of self-surveillance.”

Jeeny: “You think caring for yourself is vanity.”

Jack: “I think it’s theater. We don’t eat for nourishment anymore—we eat for identity. Keto, vegan, carnivore—it’s all flags, not food.”

Jeeny: “So what do you eat for, Jack?”

Jack: “Survival.”

Jeeny: “That’s not living. That’s maintenance.”

Host: The sunlight finally broke through the fog, cutting a narrow beam across their table. It glinted off the spoon in Jeeny’s hand, catching her eyes—brown, luminous, quietly fierce.

Jeeny: “You talk like someone who’s given up on the idea of harmony.”

Jack: “Because harmony is a marketing term now. It’s not balance people want—it’s control. They don’t want to be healthy, they want to outsmart death.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the same thing.”

Jack: “No. One is life. The other is war.”

Host: She leaned back, letting the light touch her face. For a moment, the noise of the café seemed to fade, and the two of them existed in a small, suspended silence.

Jeeny: “You always see the poison before the medicine.”

Jack: “Because I’ve swallowed both.”

Host: A trainer walked past, carrying a tray of green smoothies that looked more like science experiments than drinks. A group of young men at the bar were comparing supplement stacks—words like “ashwagandha,” “creatine,” and “B12 boosters” floated in the air like new-age hymns.

Jeeny watched them, then looked back at Jack.

Jeeny: “You know, there’s something noble about what Manuwa said. He’s a fighter, but he understands restraint. Everyone wants more—more reps, more protein, more life—but he’s saying enough.”

Jack: “Enough is a myth. Human beings don’t do enough. We do more until it breaks us.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the fight worth winning.”

Jack: “Moderation doesn’t make heroes, Jeeny. It makes quiet ghosts.”

Jeeny: “Maybe quiet ghosts live longer.”

Jack: “Maybe they never live at all.”

Host: The steam from their cups curled upward, soft and ghostlike itself, as if listening.

Jeeny: “You know what I think? The modern world fears stillness. We don’t want to be human anymore—we want to be optimized versions of it.”

Jack: “Because the unoptimized human is obsolete. You can’t compete with machines while chewing lettuce and meditating.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the point isn’t to compete.”

Jack: “Tell that to evolution.”

Jeeny: “Evolution doesn’t demand efficiency—it demands adaptation. Manuwa’s statement wasn’t about food. It was about humility. About knowing the limits of what you can control.”

Jack: “Humility doesn’t sell.”

Jeeny: “That’s why it’s rare.”

Host: Her words lingered between them, as clear and cutting as the morning light. Jack glanced at her, and for once, there was no sarcasm in his gaze—only a tired kind of recognition.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I used to count calories, weigh portions, time meals. Every bite was strategy. And one night, after a fight—one of the few I actually won—I realized I didn’t feel alive. I felt… calibrated.”

Jeeny: “You traded soul for precision.”

Jack: “Yeah. And when you lose soul, you stop tasting the food—even when you’re eating.”

Jeeny: “So what changed?”

Jack: “Nothing, really. I just got tired of pretending health meant happiness.”

Jeeny: “Maybe health isn’t happiness. Maybe it’s peace.”

Jack: “Peace feels like surrender.”

Jeeny: “Only to people who mistake exhaustion for strength.”

Host: Her voice softened, but the weight of it landed. Jack’s eyes dropped to the surface of his coffee—dark, mirror-like. The reflection trembled as a truck rumbled by outside.

Jeeny: “Manuwa understood something simple: your body’s not a project—it’s a conversation. You feed it, it listens. You ignore it, it rebels. But you can’t bribe it with pills forever.”

Jack: “And you can’t reason with entropy either.”

Jeeny: “No. But you can respect it.”

Jack: “You sound like a monk with Wi-Fi.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the only way to survive this century.”

Host: A soft laugh passed between them—worn but genuine. The kind that felt like truce more than humor.

Jeeny reached across the table, took his spoon, and began stirring his untouched coffee.

Jeeny: “Maybe we’re all supplement junkies in some way, Jack. Some take vitamins. Others take validation. It’s all the same hunger.”

Jack: “Then what’s the cure?”

Jeeny: “To stop mistaking hunger for purpose.”

Host: The fog outside had lifted now. Through the window, the city gleamed—cold glass and morning gold, life in motion.

Jack finally took a sip of his coffee. It was bitter, perfect.

Jack: “You think moderation’s strength?”

Jeeny: “No. I think awareness is. Knowing when to add and when to subtract—that’s the art.”

Jack: “So you’re saying balance isn’t found in what we consume, but in what we resist?”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: He smiled faintly, the kind of smile that comes when truth feels heavier than comfort.

Jack: “You’d make a terrible nutritionist.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But I’d make a good reminder.”

Host: The city hummed louder now—buses, footsteps, ambition stirring. The café filled with light and noise, the day pulling itself upright.

Jack and Jeeny rose from their seats, gathering their coats. For a moment, their reflections met in the glass—two figures framed by movement, both flawed, both alive.

Outside, the world glittered, restless and relentless.

Jeeny: “So, no supplements for you?”

Jack: “Just the essentials—coffee, regret, and conversation.”

Jeeny: “At least one of those builds muscle.”

Host: They stepped out into the cold. The wind hit their faces, sharp but clean, like a promise that life—real life—wasn’t found in capsules or calculations, but in the steady rhythm of being human.

And as they walked down the crowded street, their breath rising in small clouds, the morning felt less like survival and more like nourishment.