It's far easier to forgive an enemy after you've got even with

Host: The bar was quiet — the kind of quiet that sits heavy on the air, the kind that remembers things people try to forget. The neon sign outside flickered through the rain, throwing waves of blue and red across the glass like the pulse of a wounded city.

Inside, the smell of whiskey, smoke, and regret hung thick. The jukebox played a soft blues riff, tired and low, a heartbeat for broken philosophies.

At the far end of the bar, Jack sat hunched over a glass of bourbon, his coat still damp from the street. His reflection stared back from the mirror behind the bottles — eyes grey and sharp, but tired. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against the bar, her own drink untouched, the amber liquid catching the neon light.

Between them, on a damp napkin, someone had scrawled a quote in black ink — half-smudged but legible:

“It’s far easier to forgive an enemy after you’ve got even with him.” — Olin Miller

Jeeny: (reading it aloud) “You know, there’s honesty in that. Ugly honesty, but honesty.”

Host: Her voice was soft, deliberate — the kind of voice that could turn anger into introspection.

Jack: (snorts) “Yeah. Because forgiveness always sounds noble until revenge feels better.”

Jeeny: “So you think he’s right?”

Jack: “I think he’s human. Everyone wants to forgive, but no one wants to lose.”

Jeeny: “And getting even makes forgiveness feel like victory, not surrender.”

Jack: “Exactly. It’s easier to let go when you’ve already won.”

Host: The bartender passed by, wiping the counter — a silent witness to philosophies traded in low voices and late hours.

Jeeny: “You know, it’s funny — we call revenge petty, but it’s really just justice without permission.”

Jack: “And forgiveness without balance feels like surrender without closure.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “You make resentment sound rational.”

Jack: “Maybe it is. Rational doesn’t mean righteous. It just means it makes sense in the moment.”

Host: A siren wailed faintly outside, then faded — as if even the city itself grew tired of its own noise.

Jeeny: “You ever gotten even, Jack?”

Jack: (after a long pause) “Once. And it didn’t feel like victory. Just symmetry.”

Jeeny: “Symmetry?”

Jack: “Yeah. The kind of balance that still leaves you hollow. Like finishing a story, but wishing it had a better ending.”

Jeeny: “That’s the curse of revenge — it completes the circle, but it doesn’t fill it.”

Jack: “It’s the illusion of peace.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You think you’ve settled the score, but really, you’ve just kept the war alive.”

Host: She swirled the drink in her glass, the liquid catching reflections of red neon — the color of fire, or maybe of conscience.

Jeeny: “You know, I think what Miller meant wasn’t that revenge makes forgiveness pure — it just makes it possible. Once the wound stops bleeding, we can start pretending it’s healed.”

Jack: “That’s the saddest kind of truth. The world runs on pretend healing.”

Jeeny: “And pretend peace.”

Jack: “Because real peace doesn’t come from getting even. It comes from getting over.”

Jeeny: “And no one teaches that part.”

Jack: “No. Because it doesn’t make for good stories.”

Host: The jukebox shifted songs — something slow, something with pain in every chord. The rain outside tapped against the windows, patient as guilt.

Jeeny: “You know, forgiveness always feels divine when it’s theoretical. But in practice, it’s just war with better manners.”

Jack: (grinning) “You sound like you’ve had experience.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Haven’t we all?”

Host: Her fingers traced the rim of her glass, leaving faint circles of condensation — temporary, fading, like grudges we claim to have outgrown.

Jack: “The problem is, people expect forgiveness to erase memory. It doesn’t. It just teaches you to live with it.”

Jeeny: “And revenge teaches you that memory fights back.”

Jack: “So either way, you remember.”

Jeeny: “The difference is in what the remembering costs you.”

Host: The bartender refilled Jack’s glass, then moved on without a word. The neon light flickered again, slicing the silence into thin, electric lines.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how getting even never really ends things? It just rewrites the pain in your handwriting.”

Jack: “Yeah. Revenge is an echo. It sounds like closure, but it just repeats the noise.”

Jeeny: “And forgiveness is silence — unsettling, but clean.”

Jack: “Silence is harder. Revenge gives you something to hold. Forgiveness just gives you space.”

Jeeny: “Space to do what?”

Jack: “To realize you never needed to fight in the first place.”

Host: The air between them felt heavier now — the kind of weight that comes when truth stops being poetic and starts being real.

Jeeny: “So what do you think he really meant? Miller, I mean.”

Jack: “That human forgiveness isn’t pure. It’s conditional. It’s born from exhaustion, not enlightenment.”

Jeeny: “So we forgive because vengeance didn’t work.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s enough.”

Host: She smiled faintly then — the kind of smile that carries both grace and defeat.

Jeeny: “Because at least by the end of revenge, we understand the other side of pain.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s where forgiveness starts — when you see your enemy’s humanity hiding behind your own reflection.”

Host: The music shifted again — something softer now, almost tender.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, I think forgiveness without justice feels empty. But revenge without forgiveness feels endless.”

Jack: “So balance is the art of surviving both.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The rain had stopped now, leaving the street outside shining like black glass. The neon flickered steady, its light spilling over their faces — weary, thoughtful, still burning with the dim glow of recognition.

Jack: “Maybe the only real way to forgive someone is to realize they didn’t beat you — and you don’t have to beat them back.”

Jeeny: “Because forgiveness isn’t mercy. It’s release.”

Jack: “Release from what?”

Jeeny: “From the version of yourself that needed revenge to feel whole.”

Host: The silence that followed was final — not empty, but complete.

And in that soft, humming stillness, Olin Miller’s words felt less like cynicism and more like confession:

that revenge may calm the wound,
but only forgiveness cures it;
that getting even gives you balance,
but letting go gives you peace;
and that true freedom isn’t in winning the war —
it’s in refusing to keep fighting it.

The neon light flickered one last time.
The jukebox fell silent.
And as they left their drinks unfinished on the counter,
the bar — like their hearts —
was finally quiet enough
to call it forgiven.