I've got to keep breathing. It'll be my worst business mistake if

Host:
The office was half-lit, the fluorescent bulbs overhead flickering faintly like tired stars. Outside, the city’s skyline stretched in midnight blue — a thousand windows glowing, each one a cell in the sleepless organism of ambition. The clock on the wall ticked toward two in the morning.

Papers, coffee cups, and the remains of a long day’s struggle covered the desk where Jack sat, shirt untucked, tie loosened, fingers hovering over the keyboard as if waiting for an instruction from the universe. His face was pale with exhaustion — but his eyes were alive, stubbornly alert.

Across from him, Jeeny perched on the edge of a filing cabinet, holding a mug of cold coffee and watching him with quiet concern. She had taken her heels off hours ago. Her voice was soft but sharp with understanding.

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Steve Martin once said — ‘I’ve got to keep breathing. It’ll be my worst business mistake if I don’t.’”

Jack: grinning weakly, rubbing his eyes “He’s got a point. It’s hard to close deals when you’re dead.”

Jeeny: laughing softly “That’s the thing about Steve Martin — he hides wisdom in a joke. He wasn’t just talking about literal breathing, you know.”

Jack: nodding “No. He meant the kind we forget to do when we’re chasing everything else.”

Host:
The computer screen glowed pale against the darkened room. The hum of air conditioning was the only sound. Somewhere below, a siren passed, brief and fading. The world outside was still spinning, but up here, time had stalled between fatigue and obsession.

Jack: quietly “You ever feel like work starts breathing for you? Like you wake up, and your pulse belongs to your inbox?”

Jeeny: smiling sadly “All the time. We call it productivity. But really, it’s just panic with a nice suit on.”

Jack: leaning back in his chair “Yeah. And we confuse holding our breath with focus.”

Jeeny: softly “That’s what he meant — keep breathing. Keep remembering you’re alive before you remember you’re employed.”

Host:
The light from the monitor flickered across their faces, pale and cinematic. The desk was a battlefield — receipts, pens, empty energy drink cans, dreams turned into spreadsheets.

Jeeny stood and walked toward the window, gazing out at the city below. Her reflection hovered over the skyline, a ghost framed by glass.

Jeeny: quietly “People think burnout happens because of too much work. But it’s not that. It’s forgetting that work isn’t oxygen. It’s just noise. You can’t live on noise.”

Jack: watching her “So what are we supposed to live on?”

Jeeny: turning back to him “Moments that make you exhale. The ones that remind you you’re still human.”

Jack: smiling faintly “Those moments don’t fit in a business plan.”

Jeeny: smiling back “No. But they keep the person writing it alive.”

Host:
A small gust of wind rattled the glass. Jack turned off the monitor, and suddenly, the room felt larger — emptier but freer. The silence stretched out between them, the kind of silence that invites truth.

Jack: softly “I used to think success meant never stopping. Always moving, always winning.”

Jeeny: quietly “And now?”

Jack: after a long pause “Now I think it just means surviving yourself.”

Jeeny: nodding “That’s the real business skill — sustainability of the soul.”

Host:
The city lights pulsed faintly, distant and indifferent. The air smelled faintly of paper and exhaustion. Jack leaned forward, elbows on the desk, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jack: softly “You know, there’s a kind of insanity to it — chasing meaning in the machinery. I think Martin was reminding us that if you stop breathing, the machine wins.”

Jeeny: gently “Exactly. Every breath you take is an act of rebellion against burnout.”

Jack: half-smiling “That should be on a poster.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Or a company policy.”

Host:
The clock ticked again, louder now in the stillness. Jeeny sat on the edge of his desk, crossing her legs, her tone softening.

Jeeny: quietly “You know what I love about that quote? It’s funny and tragic at once. It’s the humor of survival — the kind you earn when you’ve danced with collapse and learned how to laugh your way back.”

Jack: smiling faintly “Yeah. The kind of laughter that sounds a lot like breathing.”

Jeeny: softly “Exactly. Because life isn’t supposed to be efficient. It’s supposed to be experienced.”

Jack: after a pause “Maybe that’s the real mistake we make — trying to monetize every minute. Even our rest has to justify itself.”

Jeeny: nodding “But breathing doesn’t need a reason. It’s the one thing that’s both essential and free.”

Host:
The camera would pull back slowly — the room bathed in soft blue light, the two of them now quiet, both staring out at the sleeping city. The moment felt fragile, like the pause between breaths itself.

Jack reached for his coat, slung it over his shoulder, and stood. He looked at Jeeny — a tired smile, but real this time.

Jack: quietly “Come on. Let’s get out of here. I think Steve Martin would fire us for overachieving.”

Jeeny: grinning “Best business decision you’ve made all week.”

Host:
The lights flicked off. The door closed behind them with a soft click. The office fell silent except for the ticking clock — steady, patient, alive.

And in that silence, Steve Martin’s words would echo through the empty space like a reminder carved into air:

“I’ve got to keep breathing. It’ll be my worst business mistake if I don’t.”

Because no contract
is worth more than consciousness.

No deadline
more sacred than the lungs that carry you there.

We call it success —
but what we’re really chasing
is permission to breathe again.

And perhaps the bravest thing
a person can do in a world addicted to motion
is to pause —

inhale,
exhale,
and remember that the greatest profit
is simply
being alive.