Keep a watch also on the faults of the patients, which often make

Host: The night was cool, wrapped in a thin fog that softened the sharp edges of the hospital courtyard. The lights above the entrance burned a pale white, humming quietly against the dark, like exhausted sentinels keeping watch over endless suffering. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed — brief, fading — swallowed by the hum of the city.

Inside the hospital cafeteria, the hour was late. A lone clock ticked, each sound sharp as a scalpel. Jack sat at a metal table, sleeves rolled up, his eyes tired, the kind of tiredness that comes not from lack of sleep, but from knowing too much. Across from him sat Jeeny, her dark hair loose, her hands cupping a mug of tea that had long since gone cold.

The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and coffee grounds, and the fluorescent lights gave everything the color of truth — cold, unflattering, inescapable.

Jeeny: (quietly) “Hippocrates once said, ‘Keep a watch also on the faults of the patients, which often make them lie about the taking of things prescribed.’”

Jack: (grim smile) “The father of medicine — already knew what every modern doctor still forgets. People don’t always want to get better.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. People are afraid to get better. Healing means giving up the comfort of pain.”

Jack: (scoffing) “You sound like one of those counselors who thinks suffering is a lifestyle choice.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Sometimes it is. Sometimes people cling to their illness because it gives them purpose — or pity. It becomes the only language they know.”

Host: The light overhead flickered once, catching the faint shadows beneath their eyes — two minds dissecting not just medicine, but the sickness that hides inside the will itself. The cafeteria was empty, save for them and the echo of truths too human to be cured.

Jack: “You’re giving them too much poetry. Some just lie. It’s simple — denial, rebellion, laziness. They’re told what to do, and they don’t. They’d rather sabotage themselves than obey.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because obedience without understanding feels like punishment. Healing isn’t just swallowing what’s prescribed. It’s believing that what you’re taking is worth the trust it requires.”

Jack: “Trust. That’s a word people love to abuse. They want doctors to save them, but they won’t meet them halfway. Half of medicine is chemistry — the other half is compliance.”

Jeeny: “And the missing half is humanity.”

Host: Jack’s fingers drummed on the table, the metallic rhythm like a heart protesting its own beat. His eyes, gray and restless, glanced toward the vending machine in the corner — the cheap, blinking kind that dispensed comfort in exchange for coins.

Jack: “You ever notice that people say they want to heal, but they worship the drama of being broken? They crave attention, not cure.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe they crave compassion. Attention without judgment. You call it lying; I call it hiding. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “Hiding from what?”

Jeeny: “From shame. From the feeling that being sick makes them weak. That admitting failure makes them small. The lie becomes their last defense against humiliation.”

Jack: “And you think we should coddle that?”

Jeeny: “No. Just understand it before condemning it.”

Host: The coffee machine hissed suddenly, a burst of steam breaking the quiet — a sound like a sigh too long held. Jack leaned back, staring at the ceiling tiles, his jaw clenched, his voice low, heavy with the weight of his own contradictions.

Jack: “When I was younger, I thought medicine was clean. A problem, a solution — fix it, move on. But people… people make it messy. They hide pills, they change dosages, they lie about progress. Sometimes I think doctors don’t heal bodies — they negotiate with liars.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what healing always was — negotiation. Between fear and faith. Between control and surrender.”

Jack: “You make it sound noble.”

Jeeny: “It is. To lie about pain is still to engage with it. It means the patient hasn’t given up completely — they’re still playing the game. And that means there’s still hope.”

Host: Jack’s eyes softened for a moment, and then darkened again — the way light dims when clouds return. The clock ticked louder now, or perhaps it was only their awareness of time passing without resolution.

Jack: “You think Hippocrates was forgiving? He was warning. Doctors must watch their patients — not for what they say, but for what they hide. He knew the hardest part of healing isn’t the illness; it’s the dishonesty that feeds it.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But maybe he also knew that honesty isn’t born from fear. You can’t watch someone into truth. You can only earn it.”

Jack: “And how do you do that?”

Jeeny: “By seeing the person before the symptom.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But try telling that to a doctor with twenty patients an hour and a checklist for a conscience.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s why medicine feels colder now — because healing has been replaced with management.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the windows, carrying the faint smell of disinfectant and rain. Somewhere above them, a PA system crackled, announcing a code blue in another wing. Neither of them moved. They simply listened — to life balancing precariously between despair and duty.

Jack: “You know what I hate? When patients say, ‘I’m fine,’ after we both know they’re not. They lie so calmly. Like they’ve rehearsed it.”

Jeeny: “Because they have. The world rewards that lie. ‘I’m fine’ is the only way people know how to stay invisible while asking to be seen.”

Jack: “You sound like someone who’s been on the other side of the clipboard.”

Jeeny: (after a pause) “Maybe I have been.”

Host: Jack’s expression changed — a flicker of something like guilt or empathy, quickly hidden. The rain outside became heavier, its rhythm less soothing now, more insistent — like the world itself knocking on the window, demanding acknowledgment.

Jack: “So you think Hippocrates was wrong to warn about the patient’s faults?”

Jeeny: “No. I think he was right to warn doctors to watch — but not just for deceit. For despair. For the lies that come from hopelessness, not malice.”

Jack: “Despair doesn’t excuse lying.”

Jeeny: “No, but it explains it. And understanding is the first medicine.”

Jack: (quietly) “You always find a way to humanize what others condemn.”

Jeeny: “Because condemnation doesn’t heal.”

Host: The room fell silent again. Only the rain and the slow hum of machines filled the air. Jack looked down at his hands — strong, steady, the hands of a man who fixed things — but for the first time, they seemed uncertain, as if they weren’t sure what healing meant anymore.

Jack: “You know, maybe the real fault isn’t just the patient’s. Maybe it’s ours too — for expecting honesty in a world that punishes vulnerability.”

Jeeny: (nodding) “And for mistaking confession for compliance. Healing isn’t obedience, Jack. It’s trust.”

Jack: (after a long pause) “Trust cuts both ways.”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s why it hurts — but also why it works.”

Host: The clock struck midnight, its chime soft, echoing through the near-empty hallways like a quiet benediction. The storm outside began to fade, its final drops sliding down the glass like tears unwilling to fall.

Jack: (leaning forward) “You know, maybe Hippocrates wasn’t warning against the patient. Maybe he was reminding the physician to keep his eyes open — not to mistrust, but to understand.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Watching isn’t about control; it’s about compassion with awareness. Seeing what’s hidden — not to expose it, but to hold it gently.”

Jack: “You always make wisdom sound so soft.”

Jeeny: “Because truth isn’t always hard, Jack. Sometimes it whispers.”

Host: The camera would linger there — two figures framed in sterile light, shadows stretching long across the linoleum floor. The faint hum of the vending machine, the pulse of rain, the echo of the quote itself — all merging into a single, quiet truth:

That to heal is not merely to prescribe,
but to perceive.

To watch — not to judge,
but to understand the lies born of fear,
and the fear born of being unseen.

And as Jack and Jeeny sat in that quiet, sterile sanctuary of imperfection, the night itself seemed to lean closer — listening, learning — whispering softly through the corridors of time:

Even the oldest medicine is still made of empathy.