My faith is with me always.

Host: The night hung quiet over the city, a hush draped between the distant sirens and the faint hum of traffic that never truly stopped. In the rooftop garden of an old apartment, two figures sat near the edge, their feet dangling over the dim shimmer of the streetlights below.

The sky above them was a deep velvet — scattered with faint stars that fought against the glow of the city, refusing to be swallowed by its artificial brightness.

Jack leaned against a brick wall, a cigarette between his fingers, the faint orange ember glowing like a heartbeat. His grey eyes reflected the flicker of the city’s pulse below — alive, but distant, worn.

Jeeny sat cross-legged beside him, her dark hair tied back loosely, her face calm, illuminated by the light of a small candle she’d placed between them. She watched the flame dance as though it carried something sacred — something unseen but fiercely present.

The words had just been spoken — soft, but heavy, filling the cool air with the gravity of belief:
“My faith is with me always.” — Cynthia Erivo

Jeeny: “It’s such a simple sentence, isn’t it? But it’s everything. Like breathing. You don’t think about faith when you have it — you just live inside it.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe you only think about faith when you’re afraid it’s slipping.”

Jeeny: “That’s not doubt, Jack. That’s awareness. Even when she says ‘My faith is with me always’, she’s not saying she never struggles. She’s saying she knows it’s still there, even when she can’t feel it.”

Jack: “Sounds like wishful thinking.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s the only kind of thinking that’s worth anything.”

Host: The flame of the candle wavered as a soft breeze passed through, carrying with it the faint scent of jasmine from the garden. Below them, the city lights flickered — windows opening and closing, headlights curving through the night — like a thousand stories unfolding at once.

Jack exhaled slowly, the smoke drifting upward, lost in the starlight.

Jack: “You talk about faith like it’s a person — something that walks beside you. But what if it’s not? What if it’s just a story we tell ourselves so the silence doesn’t swallow us whole?”

Jeeny: “Even if it is, isn’t that enough? A story that saves you is still salvation.”

Jack: “You mean illusion.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Illusion fades. Faith remains. It’s what keeps you standing when reason says sit down.”

Jack: “You sound like someone who’s never doubted a thing in her life.”

Jeeny: “Oh, I’ve doubted everything. Especially God. But even in that doubt, faith was still with me. That’s the paradox — it stays even when you push it away.”

Jack: “Like a shadow.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. But a shadow only exists because there’s light somewhere.”

Host: A single plane passed overhead, its lights blinking steadily across the black sky, the sound fading slowly until it became part of the background hum of existence.

Jeeny reached for the candle, cupping her hands around it, protecting the flame. The light reflected in her brown eyes, small but steady.

Jeeny: “Cynthia said those words — ‘My faith is with me always’ — like a quiet declaration, not for the world, but for herself. For the moments between performance and silence, between strength and surrender.”

Jack: “She’s a performer. It’s easy to talk about faith when people are clapping for you.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s harder. Because when the lights go out, you’re left alone with yourself. Faith isn’t about applause — it’s about the quiet after the curtain falls.”

Jack: “And what if there’s nothing in that quiet but emptiness?”

Jeeny: “Then faith is what keeps you listening until the silence turns into music.”

Host: The wind grew colder, brushing against their faces, the candle’s flame trembling but holding its ground. Jack flicked the ashes of his cigarette into the dark and watched them fall, disappearing before they hit the ground.

Jack: “You make it sound so romantic. But faith doesn’t feed you. It doesn’t pay the rent. It doesn’t fix the world when it’s breaking.”

Jeeny: “No — but it keeps you from breaking with it.”

Jack: “And you think that’s enough?”

Jeeny: “It has to be. Faith isn’t about avoiding the fall. It’s about believing there’s meaning in the fall itself.”

Jack: “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “I do. Because I’ve fallen enough times to know I’m still here.”

Host: A pause fell between them, long and fragile. The city murmured below, the sound of life persisting — cars, laughter, music leaking from open windows, the faint beat of someone else’s joy.

Jeeny tilted her head toward the stars, her voice soft, like a secret shared with the sky.

Jeeny: “You know, I think faith isn’t something you carry — it’s something that carries you. It’s the invisible arm under your ribs when everything else gives out.”

Jack: “And what if that arm lets go?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it wasn’t faith — just comfort.”

Jack: “So real faith hurts.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. Because it asks you to keep walking even when the light disappears.”

Host: The flame finally flickered out, leaving only the glow of the city below. But somehow, the space between them felt warmer, as though the darkness itself had absorbed the light and chosen to hold it.

Jack’s voice was quieter now, more human, stripped of the armor he wore so well.

Jack: “You really think it’s always there? Faith?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Like breath. You might forget it, but it doesn’t forget you.”

Jack: “And if I can’t feel it?”

Jeeny: “Then lean into the not-feeling. Sometimes faith whispers through absence. You don’t have to hear it to know it’s there.”

Jack: “That sounds… peaceful.”

Jeeny: “It is. But peace, Jack — real peace — isn’t the absence of pain. It’s the decision to trust in spite of it.”

Host: The sky shifted slightly — clouds parting to reveal a sliver of moonlight, pale and tender, falling across their faces. The city lights glowed softer now, like a heart exhaling.

Jack looked at the spot where the candle had gone out, a faint trail of smoke rising from the wick.

Jack: “You know, I envy that — the way you talk about faith like it’s a friend who never leaves.”

Jeeny: “It’s not a friend, Jack. It’s a mirror. When you lose sight of yourself, it reflects who you were made to be.”

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

Jeeny: “Then that’s where the work begins.”

Jack: “You mean prayer.”

Jeeny: “No — honesty. Faith isn’t about asking for miracles. It’s about learning to stay — in the dark, in the doubt, in the waiting — and still believing you’re not alone.”

Host: The camera would pull back slowly now, rising above the rooftop, above the two figures sitting in quiet conversation — two souls suspended between earth and heaven, reason and faith.

The candle sat extinguished between them, but the moonlight had taken its place — steady, unflinching, gentle.

The world moved beneath them — restless, uncertain — but they remained still, held by something unseen.

Because as Cynthia Erivo said, and as Jeeny now embodied:

Faith isn’t loud. It doesn’t shout. It simply stays.
It stays in the silence,
in the struggle,
in the smallest flicker that refuses to die.

And though the candle had gone out,
the light — unseen, untouchable —
was still with them always.