Justice means minding one's own business and not meddling with

Host: The sun was falling low behind the industrial skyline, casting long shadows through the dirty windows of an old garage at the edge of the city. The air smelled of iron, oil, and the faint ache of long hours. A half-repaired motorcycle sat between them — Jack with his hands blackened by grease, Jeeny perched on a wooden crate, her coat still wet from the rain outside.

The radio hummed faintly with an old rock song, the kind that belonged to a decade that had already given up on its heroes.

Jack wiped his hands with a rag, his eyes fixed on the engine like it held some secret worth uncovering.

Jeeny broke the silence.

Jeeny: “Plato once said, ‘Justice means minding one’s own business and not meddling with other men’s concerns.’”

Jack: (snorts) “Yeah? Maybe Plato never lived next to people like mine. You keep to your own business long enough, someone else will take everything that’s yours.”

Host: The light flickered overhead, catching in the sheen of metal, in the sweat on his forehead, in the cold gleam of his eyes. Jeeny folded her hands, her voice calm, deliberate.

Jeeny: “I think he meant balance, Jack — not indifference. That everyone should do what they’re made for, not try to rule others or control what isn’t theirs.”

Jack: “Sounds convenient if you’re already in charge.”

Jeeny: “You think justice is about power?”

Jack: “Everything is. Even morality is just power with better PR.”

Host: The engine gave a low metallic groan as Jack turned a bolt, his movements rough, impatient. The sound echoed like punctuation in their argument.

Jeeny: “No, justice isn’t about ruling — it’s about harmony. Plato saw the soul like a city: each part doing its role. When people meddle in what they don’t understand, the whole thing falls apart.”

Jack: “You’re describing order, not justice. Order’s what tyrants use to keep the streets clean while the prisons fill up.”

Jeeny: “And chaos is what breaks the soul. You can’t have justice when everyone’s playing savior.”

Jack: “Tell that to the people who stayed quiet while others were starving. Minding your own business doesn’t sound like virtue to me — it sounds like cowardice.”

Host: The wind outside whistled through the cracks of the old garage door, a cold breath brushing through the thick air. Jeeny looked down, tracing a line in the dust with her finger.

Jeeny: “Maybe it depends on what business you believe is yours. If you think justice belongs only to you, then helping others becomes meddling. But if you see the world as one fabric — every thread touching another — then minding your own business means caring for the whole.”

Jack: (laughs dryly) “That’s not what Plato meant. He was talking about the ideal city — a place where everyone knows their role. Soldiers fight, philosophers think, workers work. No one crosses lines. Sounds neat on paper. In real life, it’s a cage.”

Jeeny: “But even cages can protect, Jack. A city without order becomes a battlefield.”

Jack: “Then maybe justice needs a little disorder. Every revolution started when someone decided to mind someone else’s business.”

Host: His voice rose, like a wrench scraping against metal. Jeeny flinched slightly, but didn’t retreat. Her eyes glowed with that quiet fire of someone who believes even in storms.

Jeeny: “Revolutions are born from imbalance, not from people knowing their place. But after the fire — what comes? Reconstruction. Law. Balance again. Even revolution wants peace eventually.”

Jack: “And peace always ends up owned by someone.”

Host: He lit a cigarette, the small flame illuminating the tension on his face — a map of cynicism and fatigue. The smoke drifted toward the hanging lightbulb, dissolving in its weak glow.

Jeeny: “You sound like justice is impossible.”

Jack: “It is. Everyone believes they’re doing what’s right, and half the time, they’re just doing what hurts less.”

Jeeny: “Then why do you fix these bikes for free sometimes? Why help the kids who crash them?”

Jack: (hesitates) “Because someone should.”

Jeeny: “That’s justice, Jack — you just don’t call it that.”

Host: He didn’t answer. The sound of rain picked up again, a low, relentless drumming against the roof. The air smelled of oil and damp metal, of honesty too raw to be dismissed.

Jack: “Plato’s world was simple. People knew their roles, obeyed the wise, and trusted in order. But that’s not human. Humans crave interference. We fall in love with other people’s business. It’s what makes us alive.”

Jeeny: “It’s also what makes us cruel. You can’t call every invasion compassion.”

Jack: “No. But you can’t call every silence justice either.”

Host: The words hung heavy, each one like a gear grinding to a halt. Jeeny rose slowly, walked toward the small window, watching the rain smear the distant lights into soft streaks. Her reflection trembled in the glass.

Jeeny: “Maybe justice isn’t a rule, Jack. Maybe it’s a rhythm. Like in music — everyone has to know when to play, when to stay silent. If one part dominates, the song collapses.”

Jack: “Yeah, well, not everyone’s in tune.”

Jeeny: “That’s why we listen.”

Host: The lightbulb buzzed faintly, flickering again. Jack’s hands paused over the engine. For a long moment, neither spoke. The only sound was the rain — steady, cleansing.

Jack: “You know, when I was in the army, they drilled that phrase — ‘mind your own business.’ They said justice was obedience, discipline. But the only time I felt it — real justice — was when I broke orders to pull a kid out of a burning car. They called it interference. I called it conscience.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Justice isn’t the absence of action — it’s the presence of right intention.”

Jack: “Then Plato’s wrong.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe his words were meant for another world — one that doesn’t exist. Maybe here, in ours, justice has to get its hands dirty.”

Host: The rain began to slow, thinning into a light mist. Jeeny turned back to him, her eyes catching the soft light, warm and unguarded.

Jeeny: “Maybe justice starts with minding your own soul — not turning away from it, not filling it with judgment or apathy. Because only when you understand your own business can you see another’s clearly.”

Jack: “So you’re saying the mechanic should fix himself before fixing the machine.”

Jeeny: “Something like that.”

Host: He smiled faintly, a crack in the armor, brief and human. The light softened; the garage seemed warmer somehow. The engine sat silent, whole again, as if listening.

Jack: “You make it sound like justice isn’t a system. It’s a heartbeat.”

Jeeny: “It is. Justice doesn’t live in laws — it lives in restraint, in awareness, in knowing when to act and when to stand still.”

Host: The camera pulled back slowly. The rain had stopped entirely now. Outside, the streetlights glowed on the wet pavement, reflecting two small figures — a man and a woman, caught in quiet light and oil-stained shadows.

The motorcycle gleamed faintly in the corner, whole again, its stillness like peace earned through struggle.

Jack lit another cigarette, the smoke curling into the evening air.

Jack: “Maybe Plato wasn’t wrong. Maybe he was just misunderstood. Justice isn’t staying out of each other’s lives — it’s knowing where your soul ends and another begins.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: She smiled softly, the kind of smile that ends debates and begins understanding.

Outside, the city exhaled — quiet, reflective — as if the rain had washed something clean.

And inside that dim garage, the machine, the light, and the souls within all seemed, for one brief moment, perfectly aligned.