My family and friends help me a lot to never give up.

Host: The evening sky had turned a deep indigo, the kind of color that blurs the edge between daylight and memory. The streetlights hummed faintly, and the soft drizzle clung to the windows like a thin veil of silver tears. A small diner, tucked between a laundromat and a flower shop, glowed warm from within — an island of light in a restless city sea.

Inside, the air smelled of coffee, cinnamon, and tired dreams. Neon reflections danced on the counter’s chrome surface.

Jack sat hunched over a cup, his hands clasped as if holding some invisible weight. Jeeny sat across from him, her hair slightly damp from the rain, her eyes bright yet pensive.

The radio hummed low — a sports broadcast fading into static, then a soft voice quoting a line:
"My family and friends help me a lot to never give up." — Juan Martin del Potro.

A pause. The words hung in the air, tender and strong.

Jack: “Never give up… People love to say that.”
He gave a dry smile, the kind that carried more fatigue than irony.
Jack (cont.): “But they never talk about how many actually do. This world eats resilience, Jeeny. It rewards those who already have something, not those still trying.”

Host: Jeeny stirred her coffee slowly, steam curling around her fingers like soft threads of thought.

Jeeny: “You think support doesn’t matter? That it’s all about luck?”

Jack: “I think it’s about loneliness. Most people fight alone. You see it — the kid holding two jobs just to feed his mother, the woman raising her children after being left behind. Not everyone has a ‘family’ to lift them when they fall.”

Jeeny: “But that’s exactly why those who do — must. Del Potro wasn’t talking about privilege. He was talking about survival. About connection.”

Host: A truck rumbled past outside, shaking the windowpane. The reflections of headlights splintered across Jack’s face, half in light, half in shadow.

Jack: “Connection…” He let the word fall like an old coin on the table. “Funny thing, that. I used to believe in it. Until I realized that people vanish when things get hard. Everyone’s got their own storms, Jeeny. Nobody rows your boat for free.”

Jeeny: “That’s not true.”

Jack: “Isn’t it? Look around. This city’s full of people who gave up because no one reached for them. Family, friends — they’re ideals we pretend to have mastered. But when it hurts, everyone runs for shelter.”

Host: Jeeny leaned back, her expression shifting — not angry, but deeply saddened. The rainlight behind her turned her eyes almost amber.

Jeeny: “Jack… you only see what’s gone wrong. But the world isn’t built just from absence. Think of all the hands that hold quietly, the ones that don’t make it into the news. Remember when Del Potro tore his wrist tendon? Everyone said he was done. And yet his mother, his coach, his childhood friends — they stayed. They believed when the world didn’t. That belief saved him.”

Jack: “Saved him? Or delayed the inevitable?”

Jeeny: “No. It rebuilt him. Don’t you see? Support doesn’t erase pain. It transforms it. It’s not about someone fighting for you — it’s about them reminding you why you should still fight.”

Host: The rain began to fall harder, tapping the roof like quiet applause from unseen hearts. The diner’s neon sign flickered — blue, red, blue again — painting their faces in restless color.

Jack: “That’s the romantic version. But life’s not a stadium comeback story, Jeeny. People break, they fall, they disappear. No amount of cheering changes gravity.”

Jeeny: “And yet, even gravity holds us to the earth. Maybe falling and being held aren’t opposites — maybe they’re both part of living.”

Host: Jack’s gaze softened, a faint tremor behind his voice.

Jack: “You always have a poetic answer.”

Jeeny: “You always have a cynical one.”

Jack: “Because it’s the only one that lasts. Optimism doesn’t feed you when you’re empty.”

Jeeny: “But cynicism doesn’t warm you either.”

Host: Silence. Only the sound of the rain, and the low hum of the refrigerator behind the counter. A waitress refilled their cups and walked away, her shoes squeaking softly on the tile.

Jeeny: “Jack, I’ve seen you at your worst. And even then, someone stood by you. Maybe not perfectly, but they did. Remember your sister — the one who called every week when you lost your job?”

Jack looked away. His jaw tightened.

Jack: “That was years ago.”

Jeeny: “But she called. She didn’t stop. That’s what Del Potro meant. It’s not about grand gestures — it’s about the small, stubborn ones that say, ‘I’m still here.’”

Host: The words lingered. The steam from Jack’s cup blurred the window, softening the city lights beyond. For the first time, he didn’t speak immediately.

Jack: “Maybe I didn’t notice it back then. I was too angry.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why love is patient — because it waits for us to notice.”

Jack: “You really think love’s that selfless?”

Jeeny: “I think it has to be, or it isn’t love.”

Host: The rain eased again, leaving a soft mist outside that shimmered under the lamps. The city felt slower, gentler — as if listening.

Jack: “You know… when I was a kid, my father used to stay up late fixing my broken toys. He never said much. But I’d wake up, and they’d be whole again. Maybe that was his way of saying the same thing — don’t give up.”

Jeeny smiled — not triumphant, but tender.

Jeeny: “Exactly. We’re all someone’s reason to keep going. Sometimes we just forget that until someone reminds us.”

Host: The clock above the counter ticked — each second deliberate, like the heartbeat of the scene. Jack exhaled slowly, his shoulders easing for the first time that night.

Jack: “Maybe I owe a few people a call.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you do.”

Jack: “And maybe… maybe believing in them again doesn’t make me weak.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It makes you alive.”

Host: The camera would linger there — the rain slowing to a hush, reflections of light dancing across the glass, two cups of coffee growing cold but untouched. Outside, the city still pulsed — relentless, indifferent, yet filled with unseen threads of care weaving quietly between lives.

Jack looked out the window, the faintest smile playing on his lips.

Jack: “You know… maybe Del Potro was right. Maybe the hardest part isn’t fighting. It’s letting yourself be held.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s where strength really lives.”

Host: The lights dimmed slightly, leaving only the soft glow from the street, painting their faces in hues of amber and dusk. The rain stopped completely — a calm afterword to their storm of words.

Beyond the glass, a young boy and his father ran across the street, laughing, their hands clasped tightly, puddles splashing beneath their feet.

Jack watched them — quietly, almost reverently.

Jack: “They’ll remember that moment forever, won’t they?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because it’s not the victories that save us, Jack. It’s the people who don’t let us fall before we get there.”

Host: The camera pulled back slowly, rising above the street, over the diner, into the glowing night — the hum of the city blending with the soft echo of their laughter.

And somewhere, beneath all that noise, a quiet truth lingered — that even the strongest souls are built not alone, but in the warmth of those who never stop believing.