It is always the best policy to speak the truth, unless, of

Host: The moonlight leaked through the cracked shutters, spilling across the old wooden table like a confession. The room smelled faintly of smoke, rain, and cheap whiskey. Outside, the city murmured — a low, distant hum, like the heartbeat of a liar trying to stay calm.

Jack sat in the dim light, his grey eyes fixed on the glass before him, the liquid inside trembling with the weight of his unspoken thoughts. Across from him, Jeeny sat straight, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup, her dark hair clinging softly to her cheek in the damp air. The lamp between them flickered, as if the light itself hesitated to bear witness.

Jeeny: “You ever read Jerome K. Jerome, Jack?”

Jack: without looking up “The humorist? Yeah. Man could slice the world open with a joke.”

Jeeny: “He once said, ‘It is always the best policy to speak the truth — unless, of course, you are an exceptionally good liar.’”

Host: Jack’s mouth twisted into that half-smile — the kind that’s seen too much of both truth and deceit to take either seriously.

Jack: “Then I guess I’d better keep practicing.”

Jeeny: leans forward “You’re joking, but that’s exactly what worries me. You treat truth like a game. Like something flexible, bendable, disposable.”

Jack: “And you treat it like a religion. Tell me, Jeeny, when was the last time the truth saved anyone? Half the time, it ruins lives.”

Host: The rain outside thickened, drumming against the glass. The sound wrapped around their words, making the air pulse with tension.

Jeeny: “Maybe it ruins what was false to begin with. Maybe that’s its purpose.”

Jack: “No, its purpose is to make us feel righteous. But righteousness doesn’t pay rent. You think truth always wins? Tell that to Galileo, who told the truth and got imprisoned for it. Or to whistleblowers who vanish after revealing it. The world doesn’t reward honesty — it punishes it.”

Jeeny: “And yet you quote them, you admire them. Isn’t that ironic? The liars are forgotten, Jack. But the ones who told the truth, even if it killed them — they’re the ones history remembers.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the window, like the world itself scoffing at her idealism. Jack’s hand clenched around his glass.

Jack: “History doesn’t remember truth, Jeeny. It remembers good storytellers. The victors. The ones who lied well enough to rewrite it. You think Napoleon was honest? Or Churchill? No — they just had better lines.”

Jeeny: her tone sharpens “That’s not cynicism, that’s surrender. You’re confusing truth with victory. Truth doesn’t need to win to exist.”

Host: The lamp flame fluttered, throwing shadows that danced across the table — her face glowing with conviction, his with weary defiance.

Jack: “So what do you do then? Walk around spilling truths like confetti? Hurt people in the name of honesty? Tell a dying man he’s doomed because you ‘owe’ him the truth? No, Jeeny. Sometimes a lie is mercy.”

Jeeny: softly, but firm “Mercy can’t come from deceit, Jack. A lie may comfort, but it corrodes. Slowly, quietly. You don’t see the damage until it’s too late.”

Host: Her voice was gentle, but it landed like thunder. Jack looked away, his jaw tightening.

Jack: “You think I don’t know that? You think I haven’t seen what lies do? I’ve told them, sure — but I’ve also watched what truth can destroy. I once told my friend his wife was cheating on him. I thought I was helping. Two weeks later, he put a bullet in his mouth. So don’t lecture me about truth, Jeeny.”

Host: The room froze. Even the rain seemed to pause. Jeeny’s eyes glistened, her breath shallow.

Jeeny: whispering “You didn’t kill him, Jack. The truth didn’t. The lie he lived in did. It’s the weight of living in darkness that breaks people — not the light.”

Jack: slams his glass down “Light blinds, too! You think people can handle truth? Most can’t even handle themselves.”

Host: The flame in the lamp flared violently, as if echoing his fury, then steadied into a trembling glow. The whiskey rippled across the table, catching the light like molten gold.

Jeeny: “So you lie to protect them? Or to protect yourself?”

Jack: quietly “Does it matter?”

Jeeny: “Yes, Jack. It matters. Because if you lie for them, that’s compassion. But if you lie to avoid guilt, that’s cowardice.”

Host: Her words cut deep, but she didn’t raise her voice. Jack’s hands trembled slightly, his eyes haunted. For a moment, all his cynicism slipped, and something raw showed — pain, perhaps even regret.

Jack: “You always think there’s a moral line, don’t you? Like truth and lies live in separate boxes. But they don’t. They bleed into each other. Even the best liars tell truths sometimes — and even the honest ones hide things they can’t bear to face.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly why truth matters. Because it’s rare. Because it’s hard. Because it costs. Lies are easy — they’re the path of least resistance. Truth, Jack — truth is the art of courage.”

Host: The lamplight now turned golden, warmer, almost forgiving. The tension in the air softened, like a wound starting to breathe again.

Jack: sighs “You know… I envy you. You talk about truth like it’s something pure. But me? Every truth I’ve told has come back bleeding.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be. Truth isn’t gentle. It’s surgery. It cuts before it heals.”

Host: Jack leaned back, rubbing his temples, the faint trace of a bitter smile returning.

Jack: “Then maybe Jerome was right. Truth’s the best policy — unless you’re a damn good liar. And I guess I’m not good enough.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Then be honest about that. Be honest about your dishonesty. That’s the first truth that matters.”

Host: Outside, the rain eased, becoming a whisper. The streetlights flickered to life, one by one, like confessions whispered in the dark. Jeeny stood, walking slowly toward the window.

Jeeny: “We lie to survive, Jack. But we tell the truth to live. There’s a difference.”

Jack: after a pause “So what — I’m half-alive then?”

Jeeny: “No. Just afraid. But the moment you stop fearing the truth, even your lies start to lose power.”

Host: She turned back to him, her eyes reflecting the faint glow of the city beyond. He looked up at her — tired, broken, but listening.

Jack: “Maybe there’s a middle ground. Maybe honesty needs a little art. Maybe truth isn’t about saying everything — just saying what matters.”

Jeeny: “That’s not deceit. That’s wisdom.”

Host: The lamplight dimmed, leaving only the silver kiss of the moon spilling across their faces. The world outside moved on — indifferent, imperfect, but honest in its imperfection.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, maybe we’re all liars — just trying to tell the truth beautifully.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s the only truth that ever survives.”

Host: The camera would pull back now, through the cracked window, out into the night — the city glowing with a thousand small deceptions. Yet beneath it all, somewhere deep, a pulse of truth still beat quietly — fragile, human, eternal.