My life has been full of terrible misfortunes most of which never

Host: The night train hummed through the countryside — a silver serpent sliding between shadows and memory. Lights flickered across the window glass, throwing brief, trembling reflections of Jack and Jeeny against the dark. The rhythm of the rails sounded like a pulse, steady and infinite.

Outside, fields slept under a waning moon. Inside, the carriage was half-lit, filled with the soft murmur of quiet travelers lost in their own worlds. Jack sat by the window, a cup of coffee trembling slightly in his hand as the train turned. Across from him, Jeeny watched the reflection of his face instead of her own.

The air smelled faintly of steam, metal, and motion — that strange perfume of transience and thought.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Michel de Montaigne once wrote, ‘My life has been full of terrible misfortunes most of which never happened.’”

Jack: (half-laughing) “He must’ve known my brain personally.”

Jeeny: “He knew everyone’s. That’s the beauty of it — he caught the oldest human disease: fear of what might be.”

Jack: “So he’s saying all my worries are fiction?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Fiction you’ve rehearsed so often, you start living inside it.”

Jack: “Then imagination’s a curse.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Imagination’s divine. Anxiety’s what happens when divinity forgets its direction.”

Host: The train shook lightly as it crossed a bridge. Below, the dark water reflected the faint glimmer of the passing lights, like stars fallen into motion. Jeeny’s eyes followed them, her expression soft but sharp — the kind of look that belonged to people who had learned not to flinch at truth.

Jack: “It’s strange, isn’t it? We build empires in our minds — all out of fear. Whole civilizations of disaster that never exist.”

Jeeny: “Yes. We live in castles made of imagined storms.”

Jack: “And when the real ones come?”

Jeeny: “They’re almost a relief — at least reality gives you something solid to face.”

Jack: (grinning) “So Montaigne wasn’t mocking fear — he was mocking preparation.”

Jeeny: “He was mocking control. The human urge to suffer in advance.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what makes us intelligent — our ability to anticipate pain.”

Jeeny: “Or what makes us tragic — our refusal to trust peace.”

Host: The sound of the rails deepened, a rhythmic heartbeat against the quiet. The world outside moved too fast to see clearly — trees turned into streaks, stars into suggestions. Jack turned his gaze from the window to Jeeny, who looked impossibly calm in motion.

Jack: “You ever wonder why we do that — invent misery?”

Jeeny: “Because peace feels undeserved. We’ve been conditioned to expect the fall every time we find balance.”

Jack: “So suffering’s a superstition.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Like knocking on wood, but with heartbreak.”

Jack: “You sound like you’ve practiced peace.”

Jeeny: “No. I’ve practiced returning to it.”

Jack: (smiling softly) “And how does one practice that?”

Jeeny: “By refusing to let tomorrow’s ghosts steal tonight’s breath.”

Host: The lights dimmed briefly as the train entered a tunnel. For a few seconds, everything vanished — faces, reflections, the difference between here and nowhere. When light returned, it felt earned.

Jack: “You make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: “It is simple. Just not easy.”

Jack: “You know, I’ve spent years expecting disaster. Even in good moments, my mind whispers, don’t get comfortable.”

Jeeny: “That’s fear pretending to be wisdom.”

Jack: “But isn’t it logical to prepare for the worst?”

Jeeny: “It’s logical to be cautious. It’s foolish to die a thousand imaginary deaths.”

Jack: “You think Montaigne knew that firsthand?”

Jeeny: “Of course. He lived through plagues, wars, and loss — yet he still saw that the mind is the crueler battlefield.”

Host: The train slowed, its rhythm softening like a heartbeat finding rest. Outside, a village passed in flashes of light — cobblestone streets, sleeping houses, a cat darting across an alley. For a moment, everything looked serene, untroubled.

Jack: “It’s funny — all the misfortunes I’ve imagined, none of them came true. But the ones that did, I never saw coming.”

Jeeny: “That’s because reality doesn’t send warnings. It sends lessons.”

Jack: “And imagination sends rehearsals.”

Jeeny: “Yes — for plays we never perform.”

Jack: “So the tragedy isn’t fear itself, it’s wasted living.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every moment spent fearing pain is a moment you refuse joy.”

Jack: “Then why do we keep doing it?”

Jeeny: “Because pain feels familiar. Joy doesn’t.”

Host: The rain began to fall, streaking the windows with silver threads. The reflection of Jeeny’s face shimmered within them — steady eyes framed by the fragile, liquid world. Jack watched her through that blur, as if she were both real and imagined — a reminder that maybe all clarity is temporary.

Jack: “You ever envy people who can just… live? Who don’t narrate every possibility before it happens?”

Jeeny: “No. Because people like that still suffer — they just don’t see it coming. I’d rather suffer less, but fully awake.”

Jack: “You sound fearless.”

Jeeny: “I’m not fearless. I just stopped making my fears prophetic.”

Jack: “And how did you do that?”

Jeeny: “By realizing that what’s meant to break you usually arrives as something smaller — a choice, not a catastrophe.”

Jack: “A choice?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Every moment asks the same question: Do you want to live in the fear of what might go wrong, or the faith of what might go right?”

Host: The train whistle echoed through the night, a long, mournful call that somehow sounded like release. The rain eased. The moonlight returned, cutting through the clouds like a quiet apology.

Jack: “You know, Montaigne was lucky. He didn’t have social media — he didn’t have a thousand mirrors reflecting back the worst possible versions of reality.”

Jeeny: “True. But he had imagination — and that’s worse. Our minds don’t need help creating monsters.”

Jack: “And yet we believe them.”

Jeeny: “Because they sound like us.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Then maybe the work of life isn’t slaying dragons — it’s questioning the storyteller.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what he meant — that most of our pain is authored, not given.”

Jack: “And the author can choose another genre.”

Jeeny: “Comedy, maybe.”

Jack: “Or redemption.”

Jeeny: “The same thing, really.”

Host: The carriage lights flickered again, casting both of them in the golden blur of motion. The sound of the rails returned to its eternal rhythm, a mantra for the restless and the learning.

Jack: (after a pause) “So, what’s the moral of the quote?”

Jeeny: “That fear’s imagination gone mad. That peace isn’t the absence of danger, but the absence of rehearsal.”

Jack: “You make it sound like faith.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Faith in the possibility that the next moment might surprise you — and that surprise doesn’t always mean pain.”

Jack: “You think Montaigne believed that?”

Jeeny: “I think he learned it the hard way — by living long enough to see most of his worries die before he did.”

Host: The camera would slowly pan out — the train moving like a line of light through the sleeping landscape, a small vessel of motion carrying two souls toward somewhere undefined but inevitable.

The world outside remained dark, but the faces within glowed faintly — not from the lamps, but from understanding.

Jeeny’s voice lingered, steady as the rails, tender as truth:

“We spend half our lives fearing storms that never come, Jack. And when they don’t, we call it luck — not mercy. But the real miracle isn’t that disaster spares us. It’s that joy keeps returning, despite our attempts to predict its end.”

Host: The train curved into the night, vanishing into its own rhythm — a promise whispered to the dark:
that the imagined misfortunes will always pass sooner than we think,
and the light we fear losing
was never gone at all.