Leave my image alone... I will behave as I think I should and I

Host: The rain was falling in thin, persistent threads, painting the windows of the old pressroom with silver streaks. The city outside was a maze of reflections — neon lights, umbrellas, and the occasional flash of a passing taxi. Inside, the air smelled faintly of ink and burnt coffee. A single lamp cast a circle of light over a wooden table, where Jack and Jeeny sat facing each other.

The clock on the wall ticked with indifferent rhythm. On the table lay a pile of newspapers, each splashed with photographs, headlines, and opinions. Somewhere, Ezer Weizman’s words hovered like a ghost in the room:
“Leave my image alone... I will behave as I think I should and I will not change anything.”

Jeeny traced the edge of a photo, her fingers trembling slightly. Jack leaned back, his hands clasped behind his head, his expression cool and unreadable.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How much the world cares about image. We’ve built entire empires on perception — politicians, actors, even ordinary people now live through how they’re seen. But he — Weizman — said no. He refused to bend.”

Jack: (dryly) “Or he refused to adapt. There’s a thin line between integrity and stubbornness, Jeeny. Sometimes people use ‘authenticity’ as an excuse for not changing — even when they should.”

Host: The rain hit harder, a rhythmic tapping against the glass, like the heartbeat of some invisible judge listening to their words.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the point? To stand firm when the world tells you to perform? He wasn’t refusing growth — he was rejecting the illusion. The mask.”

Jack: “You call it illusion, I call it reality. Every society runs on masks. If you walk into a meeting and say everything you truly think, you’ll be destroyed. Image isn’t a lie — it’s currency. It’s how the world stays civil.”

Jeeny: “Civil or fake?”

Jack: “Civil because it’s fake. You think peace treaties, diplomacy, marriages — they survive on honesty? No. They survive on the discipline of pretending. Weizman could afford to say that because he had already earned his image.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes darkened. She looked toward the window, where light from a streetlamp blurred through rain. Her reflection stared back — pale, uncertain, yet quietly fierce.

Jeeny: “So you’d rather live by pretending than by truth?”

Jack: “I’d rather live effectively. Truth is a weapon — use it carelessly, and you bleed yourself dry.”

Jeeny: “You sound like Machiavelli.”

Jack: “He wasn’t wrong. The world doesn’t reward honesty, Jeeny. It rewards control. The man who owns his image owns his fate.”

Jeeny: (softly) “And the man who doesn’t care for his image owns his soul.”

Host: Her voice cut through the air like the clean edge of a blade. The lamp flickered once. The rain slowed. Jack looked at her — not as an opponent now, but as someone standing on the edge of something dangerous and pure.

Jack: “You think integrity can survive without compromise? Look at history. Galileo had integrity — he was silenced. Socrates had it — he drank poison. They stayed true, and the world buried them for it.”

Jeeny: “And yet their truths outlived the ones who buried them. The world needs people who refuse to be rewritten.”

Jack: “That’s a romantic notion. But you can’t feed on ideals. You can’t govern a country, lead a company, or even keep a relationship alive without bending. Humans are made of compromise — that’s survival.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. That’s fear.”

Host: The silence that followed was thick, pressing. The rain outside became a distant whisper, as though the world itself held its breath.

Jeeny leaned forward. Her eyes burned with something like quiet defiance.

Jeeny: “Do you know what’s worse than being misunderstood, Jack? Being false to yourself. We chase approval as if it were oxygen, but every time we change to fit someone’s expectations, we suffocate a little more.”

Jack: “So you’d rather be hated than misunderstood?”

Jeeny: “I’d rather be real.”

Jack: (smirking) “Reality is overrated.”

Jeeny: “No. Reality is sacred. You think Weizman meant vanity? No. He meant freedom — the right to exist without apology. To act as conscience dictates, not as cameras demand.”

Host: The light flickered again. The room seemed smaller now, intimate — like a confession booth. Jack’s grey eyes met hers; something weary softened behind the skepticism.

Jack: “But doesn’t your conscience change? Aren’t we supposed to evolve?”

Jeeny: “Evolving isn’t changing for approval. It’s growing from truth. When Weizman said, ‘I will behave as I think I should,’ he wasn’t saying he’s perfect. He was saying, my compass is my own. That’s integrity.”

Jack: “And what if your compass points the wrong way? History’s full of people who did monstrous things believing they were right.”

Jeeny: “Then the sin isn’t in conviction — it’s in blindness. But to live constantly adjusting your reflection in others’ eyes? That’s its own kind of death.”

Host: A truck passed outside, splashing through puddles, sending faint vibrations through the floorboards. The clock ticked louder.

Jack: “So tell me, Jeeny — you’d never change how you act, even if everyone turned against you?”

Jeeny: “Not for their comfort. Change, yes — for conscience, for growth, for love — but not for the performance of being liked.”

Jack: “That sounds noble until the world decides your truth is wrong. Then what?”

Jeeny: “Then you stand alone. Because solitude with integrity is better than applause built on lies.”

Host: Her words echoed like thunder in the small room. Jack said nothing. His jaw tightened, his fingers tapped the table.

Then, quietly, he spoke.

Jack: “You know, when I worked in PR, I destroyed a man’s reputation once — with a single press release. He had made a bad decision, yes, but we turned him into a monster. He resigned, vanished. All because his ‘image’ no longer matched the story we wanted. Sometimes I wonder if I killed something real that day.”

Jeeny: (gently) “You didn’t kill him, Jack. You killed his reflection.”

Jack: “Same thing.”

Jeeny: “No. Reflection isn’t reality. You of all people should know that.”

Host: The rain stopped. The streetlights hummed. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed, then faded. The world felt emptied of noise — as if every sound had retreated to give their words room to breathe.

Jeeny: “You can repair a reflection, Jack. But first you have to see yourself without it.”

Jack: “And if you don’t like what you see?”

Jeeny: “Then you face it. You don’t repaint it.”

Host: For a long moment, neither moved. The lamplight softened, spilling golden across their faces, and for the first time, Jack’s features looked human — tired, uncertain, but alive.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the image is just armor. We build it to protect ourselves, but after a while, it starts wearing us.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And one day, you wake up realizing you’ve become the mask you made.”

Jack: “So you’d rather walk naked through judgment than wear a mask?”

Jeeny: “If that’s what truth costs, yes.”

Host: He stared at her — really stared. And then, something in his expression broke, like the slow crack of ice under thaw.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… you make truth sound like rebellion.”

Jeeny: “It is. The quiet kind.”

Host: A faint smile crossed his lips, weary but real. The clock struck midnight. The lamp buzzed once more, then steadied — its glow now softer, like dawn hesitating to arrive.

Jack: “Maybe Weizman wasn’t just talking about himself. Maybe he was warning us — that when we let the world own our image, we lose the right to own our soul.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: Outside, the rain had cleared. The street shimmered under thin layers of water, catching the light like shattered glass.

Jeeny rose, wrapping her shawl around her shoulders. Jack stayed seated, watching the fading smoke from the lamp bulb drift upward — slow, uncertain, free.

Jeeny: “We can’t control how the world sees us, Jack. We can only control how we see ourselves.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s enough.”

Host: She turned toward the door, her silhouette framed by the dim glow of the street beyond.

The last sound was the gentle click of the door, and then — only the soft hum of the city, breathing through the glass.

In the empty room, the lamp burned steady, and on the table, among headlines and scattered ink, a single phrase remained — as if whispered by the air itself:

“Leave my image alone.”

The room swallowed the words like a final truth — quiet, unbending, eternal.