My second freshman year of college, that's year two of seven, my

Host: The suburban diner sat at the edge of the highway, its neon sign buzzing weakly in the evening drizzle. Trucks roared past, their headlights streaking through the rain-streaked glass, while inside, the air smelled faintly of coffee, grease, and nostalgia.

At the back booth — the one under the flickering light that always hummed like a tired memory — sat Jack and Jeeny. A half-eaten slice of pie rested between them, two mugs of coffee cooling untouched.

Jack had his sleeves rolled up, revealing a sturdy wrist — and on it, a worn Rolex, its face scratched, its band dulled, but still ticking steady. Jeeny noticed it immediately.

Jeeny: “That’s new. Or… not new exactly.”

Jack: “It’s not. Been in the family. My dad’s.”

Jeeny: “Ah. So this is one of those stories that starts with a gift and ends with guilt.”

Jack: “Funny. That’s not too far off.”

Host: Jack’s voice softened, his grey eyes drifting toward the window, watching the rain gather on the glass like small, remembered moments.

Jack: “You know that comedian, Bert Kreischer? He once told a story about his dad giving him a Rolex when he thought he was dying. He wore it every day. Then his dad didn’t die — just kept living. And years later, on his fortieth birthday, the old man gave him his Rolex. He said that was the one thing they connected on. The watch.”

Jeeny: “That’s actually… kind of beautiful. Tragic, but beautiful.”

Jack: “Yeah. Beautiful in a mechanical way. That’s how men do intimacy — through gears, metal, and timepieces. We don’t say the words; we give something that ticks.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s easier than saying I love you.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Host: The rain deepened, tapping against the windowpane like the slow pulse of memory. The clock on the diner wall ticked faintly — a rhythm that seemed to echo the Rolex on Jack’s wrist.

Jeeny: “Did your dad give you that one when he was sick?”

Jack: “No. He gave it when he got better.”

Jeeny: “So, kind of a survival trophy.”

Jack: “More like an apology. For not dying.”

Jeeny: “That’s… dark, Jack.”

Jack: “It’s true. He thought it was his time. He gave me his old watch — said, ‘Keep it ticking if I can’t.’ And then he didn’t die. I wore that thing every day for ten years, like a promise I couldn’t return. When he turned seventy, he gave me this one — the nice one, the one he always said I wasn’t responsible enough for.”

Jeeny: “And that was… love?”

Jack: “That was as close as we got.”

Host: Jeeny leaned back, her eyes soft, but her voice edged with thought. The light above them flickered, painting her face in pale gold, her expression halfway between compassion and philosophy.

Jeeny: “Isn’t that strange? The way fathers and sons trade emotions through objects. Like love needs to be disguised as something you can hold. Why do you think that is?”

Jack: “Because saying it makes it fragile. But giving something — solid, weighty — makes it feel permanent. A watch doesn’t flinch when you fail it.”

Jeeny: “But it also doesn’t forgive.”

Jack: “No. It just ticks. Reminds you that time keeps moving, with or without understanding.”

Host: Outside, the rain slowed, turning into a gentle drizzle that glowed under the streetlights. The diner door creaked, letting in a burst of cold air, and a young man stepped in, shaking off the rain. He wore a cheap digital watch, its plastic strap cracked. He ordered coffee to go, glanced at his wrist once, and left.

Jeeny watched him, then looked back at Jack.

Jeeny: “You ever think about how much time we measure but never feel? How we turn seconds into schedules, but not meaning?”

Jack: “All the time. Maybe that’s why my dad loved watches. He thought control was the same as understanding. Every tick was proof that the world was still in order.”

Jeeny: “And you?”

Jack: “I wear it for the opposite reason — to remind myself that order’s just an illusion. That it all ends eventually. The watch doesn’t stop that. It just keeps the rhythm until it can’t.”

Jeeny: “So it’s not really about time for you.”

Jack: “No. It’s about him. About the silence between us that this thing keeps filling.”

Host: A truck horn blared in the distance. Inside, the diner light steadied, and for a moment, the world paused — like time itself was listening.

Jeeny rested her chin on her hand, her voice lowering, almost tender.

Jeeny: “My mom gave me her mother’s necklace before she passed. I never wore it much — too delicate, too heavy somehow. But it sits in my drawer, and sometimes I just… look at it. It’s strange, isn’t it? How an object becomes a memory’s vessel.”

Jack: “Yeah. It’s like keeping someone’s heartbeat in your pocket.”

Jeeny: “And we call that inheritance.”

Jack: “Or connection.”

Host: Jeeny smiled, not with joy, but with that rare kind of recognition — when someone else finally names the quiet thing inside you.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Bert Kreischer meant. The watch wasn’t just about time or luxury. It was about being seen — by a father who didn’t know how to say he cared. The first watch said, ‘I thought I was leaving you.’ The second said, ‘I’m still here.’”

Jack: “And both said what words couldn’t.”

Jeeny: “Which is both beautiful and heartbreaking.”

Jack: “Yeah. That’s family for you — a mix of inheritance and misunderstanding.”

Jeeny: “Do you ever tell your dad how you feel?”

Jack: “Once. He just looked at me, checked his watch, and said, ‘We’re late for dinner.’”

Jeeny: “That’s... so him. So universal.”

Jack: “Yeah. But you know what? It was the first time he smiled without correcting me. Maybe that was his way of saying it back.”

Host: The clock on the wall struck nine, and its chime echoed faintly over the din of forks and murmurs. The rain stopped. Outside, the pavement gleamed, catching the reflection of passing cars like tiny constellations.

Jack glanced down at the watch again — the second hand sweeping, tireless and exact.

Jeeny: “Still keeps perfect time?”

Jack: “Always.”

Jeeny: “Like him.”

Jack: “Yeah. Even when he’s wrong, he’s precise.”

Jeeny: “Maybe precision’s how he loves.”

Jack: “And imperfection’s how I remember him.”

Host: They sat in quiet, two people tethered not by ideology or romance, but by the shared ache of inheritance — the way love sometimes hides behind the ticking of clocks, the way emotion becomes mechanical when words are too fragile to hold it.

Jeeny: “You know what I think?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “The real connection isn’t the watch. It’s that you’re still wearing it. That’s what keeps time alive — not the gears, but the choice.”

Jack: “Yeah. Maybe the point isn’t to keep it ticking forever. Maybe it’s to remember who wound it first.”

Host: Outside, a single drop of rain slid down the window, tracing a slow, shimmering path, then disappearing. The diner lights dimmed, and the radio played something soft and nostalgic — an old melody about time and love and loss.

Jack lifted his wrist, looked at the Rolex, and then at Jeeny.

Jack: “You ever notice? A watch doesn’t care who’s watching. It just keeps going.”

Jeeny: “That’s why it’s wiser than we are.”

Host: The camera would linger there, on the two of them, framed by soft light and quiet understanding, the tick-tick-tick of the watch filling the space where words no longer belonged.

And as the scene faded, only the sound of time remained — not as a countdown, but as a connection —
the kind that keeps beating, long after the giver is gone.