In real life we don't know what's going to happen next. So how

Host:
The evening breathed through the open door of the small rehearsal hall, carrying the scent of dust, wood, and fading rain. The floorboards creaked under the weight of old stories, and the stage lights, still warm, hung like low suns, casting long, gold shadows.

Jack stood at the edge of the stage, his hands in his pockets, staring at the empty seats as though they were a jury. Jeeny sat on the steps, barefoot, her script open on her lap, her eyes wandering, not reading.

Outside, night was settling, and the city’s hum bled faintly through the walls. It was the kind of quiet that feels like a pause before a confession.

Jeeny:
“Sam Shepard once said, ‘In real life we don’t know what’s going to happen next. So how can you be that way on a stage? Being alive to the possibility of not knowing exactly how everything is going to happen next—if you can find places to have that happen onstage, it can resonate with an experience of living.’”

Host:
Her voice echoed in the empty space, as if the walls themselves listened, hungry for the truth in her tone.

Jack:
“So what, Jeeny? You want us to wing it now? Just walk out there and pretend we don’t know the lines? That’s not art — that’s chaos.”

Jeeny:
“It’s not about forgetting the lines, Jack. It’s about feeling them. About letting the moment breathe. Shepard was saying that if we control everything, we kill it. Life doesn’t rehearse — why should truth?”

Jack:
“Because the audience pays to see control. They want precision, structure — a story that makes sense. You start chasing ‘not knowing,’ and you’ll end up with a mess. You ever see a director’s face when an actor improvises? It’s like watching someone drown in slow motion.”

Jeeny:
“But isn’t that the point? To drown a little? To risk something real? When I see an actor break, or hesitate, or forget — for just a second — that’s when I believe them. That’s when they’re alive.”

Host:
A gust of wind rattled the windows, and a loose curtain flapped, whispering like an audience in the dark. Jack turned, his grey eyes catching the light.

Jack:
“You sound like every drama student who thinks emotion makes up for discipline. The stage isn’t life, Jeeny — it’s a mirror. You can’t build a mirror out of chaos. It needs form, edges, intention.”

Jeeny:
“But what good is a mirror if it only reflects what’s safe? Shepard wasn’t talking about anarchy, Jack. He was talking about being present. About that split-second where you don’t know what comes next, and yet you trust the moment. That’s life. That’s the pulse of it.”

Jack:
“You really think the audience wants to see us uncertain? They come here to escape uncertainty, not watch us flail in it.”

Jeeny:
“No, they come here to feel something that’s true. And truth doesn’t always behave. It doesn’t always arrive on cue. You can’t schedule real feeling, Jack. You can only invite it.”

Host:
A silence settled, but it wasn’t empty. It was the kind that builds, waiting for something to break. The light from the stage lamps shifted, warming Jeeny’s face, softening her features — while Jack remained in the shadow, his expression unreadable.

Jack:
“Life isn’t a stage, Jeeny. It’s messy, it’s unwritten, and it’s merciless. That’s why we have the stage — to make sense of it. To put order where there’s chaos. Shepard romanticized the unknown because it sounds deep. But people don’t want the unknown; they want meaning.”

Jeeny:
“And you think meaning comes from certainty?”

Jack:
“It comes from craft. From design. From knowing exactly how the story ends before you start. That’s how we survive — in art and in life. We plan. We rehearse. We control what we can.”

Jeeny:
“And yet, everything that’s ever changed you, Jack — every real moment in your life — came from what you couldn’t control, didn’t it?”

Host:
That landed. You could see it in his eyes, the flash of an old wound — a memory that stirred like an animal in the dark. He turned away, his jaw tense, his voice quieter when he spoke again.

Jack:
“You mean like when my wife left? Or when my mother died? Yeah, those were ‘real moments.’ Full of surprise. Full of that authentic uncertainty you worship. You know what it felt like? Hell. I’d rather know the ending than live through that again.”

Jeeny:
“I’m sorry, Jack.”

Jack:
“Don’t be. Just don’t pretend that not knowing what comes next is beautiful. Sometimes it’s just pain — raw, stupid, meaningless pain.”

Jeeny:
“But that’s what makes us alive. The not knowing. The risk of feeling — even when it hurts. Shepard wasn’t glorifying pain; he was reminding us that control is an illusion. We think we’re writing the script, but really, the moment is writing us.”

Host:
The clock on the wall ticked, each beat a metronome for their hearts. Jack walked to the center stage, staring at the tape marks beneath his feet.

Jack:
“You ever notice these marks?” he asked. “They tell us where to stand, where to move, when to stop. Everything’s planned. Even the light that hits your face — it’s all mapped. That’s what makes the magic work.”

Jeeny:
“But real magic happens when you step off the mark.”

Jack:
“That’s when the director screams.”

Jeeny:
“Or when the audience finally sees you.”

Host:
The tension hung there — fragile, shimmering — like a chord waiting for its resolution. The rain had started again, tapping gently against the roof, as if the world outside had joined their argument.

Jeeny:
“You remember that performance of Streetcar last year? The one where the actor forgot his line — and for five seconds, the whole room just breathed with him? That silence was the most alive I’ve ever felt in a theatre. That’s what Shepard meant. It wasn’t about being perfect; it was about being present.”

Jack:
“Yeah, and half the critics called it a disaster.”

Jeeny:
“But the audience cried.”

Host:
Jack laughed, a low, almost tired sound. It broke the tension, but not the truth that hung between them.

Jack:
“You really think we can live like that? Always unprepared, always guessing? Out there — on stage, in life — doesn’t matter. If you’re always waiting for what you don’t know, you’ll never build anything that lasts.”

Jeeny:
“Maybe not. But maybe that’s okay. Maybe the point isn’t to build forever, Jack. Maybe it’s just to be here, fully, while it lasts. To be alive to what’s happening, instead of rehearsing what should.”

Host:
She stood, closing her script, the pages fluttering like wings. She walked toward him, the stage light catching in her eyes — brown, warm, and a little wild.

Jeeny:
“You said the stage is a mirror. But mirrors don’t just reflect; they can also reveal. If we let a little chaos in, a little not knowing, maybe the mirror shows something true for once.”

Jack:
“And if it breaks?”

Jeeny:
“Then maybe that’s when it finally shows who we are.”

Host:
The lights in the hall dimmed, one by one, until only a single spotlight remained, glowing over them like the last truth in a room full of fictions.

Jack looked at her — really looked — and then he nodded, the faintest smile ghosting across his face.

Jack:
“Alright. Let’s try it your way. No marks. No safety net.”

Jeeny:
“Just us, and the moment.”

Jack:
“And whatever comes next.”

Host:
They stepped into the light, their shadows merging, breathing the same uncertain air. Outside, the rain softened, and the city glowed beneath it — imperfect, improvised, but alive.

In that fragile silence, the stage and life were no longer separate. They had become the same scene — one of risk, of truth, of not knowing, and of being utterly, beautifully alive.