Men willingly believe what they wish.

Host:
The night pressed close around the city, a curtain of rain drawing thin lines across the fogged café windows. A dim, golden light flickered from a single hanging bulb, swinging slightly in the draft. Jack sat hunched over a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the glint of that tired light, while Jeeny stirred her coffee, the small clinking of the spoon sounding like a quiet heartbeat between them.

Beyond the glass, the world blurred — neon signs bleeding into the wet pavement, hurried silhouettes passing by with umbrellas like shields. Inside, it was warmer, but heavy with the kind of silence that could either heal or break.

Jack’s eyes, grey and sharp, watched the swirling whiskey as if it held the truth itself. Jeeny’s gaze, soft but unflinching, rested on him, waiting — as if she already knew the storm he was about to unleash.

Jack:
"Men willingly believe what they wish," he murmured, his voice low, the words rolling from his mouth like smoke. "Julius Caesar had that right. People don’t believe what’s true — they believe what’s convenient, what makes them feel good. That’s the real empire of man — comfort, not truth."

Jeeny:
Her brow softened, though her eyes carried that quiet fire she was known for. "You sound like you’ve stopped believing in people altogether," she said gently, her voice cutting through the rain’s rhythm. "You think every belief is just self-deception?"

Jack:
He gave a half smile, bitter and thin. "Not every belief. Just the ones that matter most. People cling to illusions like it’s oxygen. Faith, love, justice — words people wrap around themselves so they don’t have to look into the void. You’ve seen it too. They’ll bend reality until it fits their comfort zone."

Host:
The light flickered again, and for a moment, the room was shadowed — his words hung like ghosts in the air. Jeeny looked down, her fingers tightening around the mug as though trying to hold onto something real.

Jeeny:
"Maybe," she said softly, "but maybe that’s not weakness, Jack. Maybe it’s what keeps us alive. We believe what we hope for — not because it’s convenient, but because it’s the only thing that makes life worth living."

Jack:
He snorted, the sound half amusement, half pain. "Hope is a kind of drug, Jeeny. The oldest one. You think people followed Caesar because of truth? No. They followed him because he promised them glory. They wanted to believe in something bigger than their empty lives. He knew that. He used it. Every leader does."

Jeeny:
She leaned forward, her hair catching the faint light, her eyes unwavering. "And yet, Jack, Caesar’s own belief in himself — in his destiny — led to his death. The Ides of March, remember? Even the greatest mind is not immune to his own illusions."

Jack:
His jaw tightened, his fingers drumming the table. "That’s exactly my point. Even he — the most pragmatic man alive — fell for his own myth. He believed what he wished, and it killed him. If Caesar couldn’t escape his own lies, what chance do the rest of us have?"

Host:
A brief silence filled the space, as though the rain itself had stopped to listen. The air between them was charged now — tension and tenderness coiled together like twin threads.

Jeeny:
"You talk like believing is the same as lying," she said quietly. "But belief isn’t always blindness. It can be a choice. Think of the people who fought for what they believed — Martin Luther King, Gandhi, Mandela. They weren’t deceived, Jack. They believed not because it was easy, but because the world was hard."

Jack:
He looked up, his eyes narrowing, voice low but cutting. "And how many of them were destroyed for it, Jeeny? King — shot in cold blood. Gandhi — murdered by the very people he tried to unite. Mandela — locked away for decades. That’s what belief gets you: suffering. People follow these figures not out of understanding, but out of desperation for meaning. They believe what they need to believe so they don’t collapse."

Jeeny:
Her hand trembled slightly, but her voice stayed firm. "Then maybe that’s the price of humanity — that we keep believing even when the world tries to prove us wrong. It’s not deception, Jack. It’s courage. It’s what separates us from your cold logic."

Host:
The sound of thunder rumbled distantly, echoing through the narrow streets. The light from the bulb flickered once more, this time steadying — its glow like a heartbeat refusing to die.

Jack:
He sighed, rubbing his temples, his tone softening but still tinged with bitterness. "Courage, huh? I call it survival instinct. You tell yourself a good story, you make it through another day. Doesn’t matter if it’s true. We all pick our poison. Some choose God, some choose love, some choose success. It’s all the same lie, dressed differently."

Jeeny:
"Then why are you still here, Jack?" she asked suddenly, leaning closer. "If it’s all lies, why haven’t you walked away from everyone, from everything?"

He didn’t answer immediately. He stared into his glass as though the answer might be floating there, somewhere between reflection and regret.

Jack:
"Maybe I like the lie," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe I need it too."

Host:
The moment stretched — fragile, human, unbearably real. The rain outside softened, tapering into a gentle drizzle, and the neon glow faded into a muted haze. Jeeny’s expression softened too, her anger folding into sadness and understanding.

Jeeny:
"That’s not a lie, Jack. That’s the truth we live in. The difference is whether you believe to escape the world or to change it."

Jack:
He looked up at her, eyes tired but touched by something faint — curiosity, maybe even admiration. "And you think belief changes it?"

Jeeny:
"I know it does." Her voice carried a kind of quiet certainty, the kind that doesn’t need proof. "Every great thing that’s ever happened — every bridge built, every war ended, every act of love — started because someone believed in what they wished. The wish is what moves us. The truth just follows behind."

Host:
The wind outside had died, leaving the world drenched but calm. Inside, the tension broke like a tide pulling away from shore. Jack’s shoulders eased, the hardness in his eyes giving way to something softer.

He raised his glass slightly toward her.
Jack:
"To wishes, then. Dangerous as they are."

Jeeny:
She smiled faintly, her own cup lifted in reply. "To the ones who still believe in them."

Host:
The glasses touched — a soft, echoing chime in the quiet café. Outside, a streetlight flickered back to life, its pale light spilling across the wet pavement, like a promise reborn.
For a fleeting moment, their reflections in the window blurred together — the skeptic and the believer — both illuminated by the same fragile glow.

And as the night deepened, one could almost feel Caesar’s old truth shifting — not as a warning, but as a whisper:
that men willingly believe what they wish…
because sometimes, it’s the only way to keep the world from going dark.