It's amazing how stress keeps you trim.

Host:
The morning sun slipped through the cracks of the blinds, pouring thin ribbons of light across a cluttered kitchen table. Half-empty coffee cups, unpaid bills, and a laptop blinking with overdue emails set the tone of the room — a shrine to modern exhaustion.

The clock ticked far too loud for comfort, like a reminder of everything undone. The sound of the city outside — buses, horns, people rushing — felt like background music to a race that no one had agreed to run but everyone somehow entered.

At the table sat Jack, shoulders hunched, fingers drumming restlessly on the keyboard. His hair was unkempt, his tie crooked, and his expression sharp, the kind of sharpness that comes from being wound too tight for too long.

Across from him, Jeeny sat cross-legged on a chair, holding a mug of tea with both hands, calm in that unbothered way that irritates the frantic. Her eyes followed him quietly, like someone watching a storm they’ve already survived.

On the fridge, a magnet held up a slip of paper torn from a magazine. On it was a quote scrawled in faded ink:

“It’s amazing how stress keeps you trim.” — Peter Andre

And somehow, those words — light, ironic, throwaway — had become an accidental mantra in Jack’s household.

Jeeny: (softly) You’ve been pacing between the laptop and the window for twenty minutes. You planning to walk the anxiety right out of you?

Jack: (gritting his teeth) Can’t sit still. Every time I try, my brain starts listing everything I haven’t done.

Jeeny: (gently teasing) Maybe that’s your version of cardio.

Jack: (snorts) Yeah, great — a workout for ulcers.

Jeeny: (smiling) You do look thinner though. Stress suits you.

Jack: (looks at her, half-smiling, half-tired) You quoting Peter Andre at me now?

Jeeny: (shrugs) Someone’s got to remind you that your suffering has aesthetic benefits.

Host: The kettle clicked off behind them, hissing steam into the air. The smell of burnt toast lingered — another casualty of distraction. Jack exhaled sharply and rubbed his temples, his breath heavy like he was trying to exorcise his own heartbeat.

Jack: (quietly) It’s funny, though. Stress does keep you moving. Makes you feel productive, even when you’re just… spiraling.

Jeeny: (softly) That’s the trick, isn’t it? It feels like movement, but it’s really erosion.

Jack: (frowning) Erosion?

Jeeny: (nodding) Yeah. You keep polishing yourself down, thinking it’s discipline. But really, you’re just wearing yourself thin.

Jack: (chuckles) You make burnout sound poetic.

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) Poetic things are rarely kind.

Host: The sunlight hit the dust particles floating between them, making them shimmer like little ghosts of calm refusing to land. The air was thick with the smell of caffeine and unfinished intentions.

Jack: (half-joking) You know, if stress really burns calories, I should be a model by now.

Jeeny: (deadpan) You’d need a whole new wardrobe. And probably a therapist.

Jack: (smirks) So I’m efficient and fashionable.

Jeeny: (gently) You’re fading, Jack. That’s not the same thing.

Jack: (pauses) You ever think maybe that’s the goal? If I just work hard enough, maybe I’ll vanish into the success I keep chasing.

Jeeny: (softly) That’s not success, Jack. That’s disappearance.

Jack: (quietly) Yeah. Maybe that’s what peace looks like to me — nothing left to fail.

Jeeny: (firmly) Peace isn’t emptiness. It’s breathing without apologizing for it.

Host: The clock ticked louder, as if disagreeing with her. Jack’s eyes flicked to it and back to his laptop, his mind already pulling him back toward the next email, the next task, the next sprint to nowhere.

Jeeny: (after a pause) You know what stress really does? It disguises itself as importance. It tells you you’re valuable because you’re busy.

Jack: (bitterly) Yeah. And when you stop, you feel worthless.

Jeeny: (softly) Exactly. You’ve mistaken exhaustion for worth.

Jack: (leans forward) Easy for you to say. You’re calm. You meditate. You read. You’ve got time.

Jeeny: (smiles) I make time. The world won’t give it to you willingly.

Jack: (sighs) You really think slowing down fixes anything?

Jeeny: (quietly) Slowing down doesn’t fix. It reveals.

Host: The wind outside whistled, catching a loose piece of paper on the counter, spinning it in circles before letting it fall. Jack watched it land — motionless now, but not defeated.

Jack: (softly) I don’t even know who I am without the stress anymore. It’s like the only thing that makes me feel alive.

Jeeny: (nods) That’s addiction, not life.

Jack: (bitterly) Feels the same.

Jeeny: (gently) No, Jack. Life gives. Addiction takes.

Jack: (after a pause) Then what am I supposed to do? Just... stop?

Jeeny: (quietly) No. Redirect. Put your energy somewhere that feeds you instead of draining you.

Jack: (half-laughs) Like yoga?

Jeeny: (smiling) Or art. Or quiet. Or forgiveness. Pick your therapy.

Jack: (leans back, thinking) You make it sound easy.

Jeeny: (softly) It’s not easy. It’s necessary. You don’t have to collapse to prove you’re working hard.

Host: The light shifted, the room warming to a soft gold. The tension in Jack’s shoulders eased a little — just enough to notice how heavy it had been all this time.

Jack: (after a moment) Maybe stress does keep you trim. It trims the joy, the patience, the laughter. Cuts away everything soft until all that’s left is function.

Jeeny: (quietly) That’s what you call efficiency, isn’t it? Cutting away your own softness because it feels unproductive.

Jack: (nods slowly) Yeah. I guess softness doesn’t scale.

Jeeny: (softly) But it sustains. Hard edges don’t hold love, Jack. They just break things faster.

Jack: (quietly) Including me.

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) Especially you.

Host: The room fell still, save for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic click of the clock. Jack’s eyes softened, finally meeting hers. The fight in them wasn’t gone — just tired.

Jack: (softly) You know what’s crazy? Stress was the first thing I ever mastered. It made me sharper, tougher, faster. I thought it was evolution.

Jeeny: (gently) It was survival. But you’re not in danger anymore, Jack. You just forgot how to live without the fight.

Jack: (smiles faintly) You make peace sound like a luxury.

Jeeny: (smiles back) It is. But it’s the only one worth paying for.

Host: The sunlight moved across the table, catching the quote on the fridge again — the ink barely visible now, the humor behind it almost cruel in its accuracy.

Jack stood, stretched, and for the first time that morning, took a slow, deliberate breath. Not a sigh, not an exhale of defeat — a breath of permission.

Host (closing):
The kettle whistled softly, filling the air with a quiet warmth. Jeeny watched him move toward the window, his posture loosening, the tension unwinding like an overplayed chord finally resolved.

On the fridge, Peter Andre’s words glimmered in the fading light:

“It’s amazing how stress keeps you trim.”

And maybe he was right —
stress does carve away.
It chisels the excess, the comfort, the softness.

But what’s left behind isn’t always strength.
Sometimes it’s just a sculpture of survival —
sharp, hollow, efficient, and lonely.

Jack and Jeeny stood in that morning light —
one learning that stillness doesn’t mean failure,
the other reminding him that peace doesn’t mean weakness.

And for the first time in months,
the clock ticked without pressure.
Time passed.
But for once —
it didn’t chase.