My undergraduate degree was in history, and I wish I had been

Host:
The night was cold and still, the kind that made the city’s lights look like they were shivering against the dark. In a small bookstore café, time seemed to have paused — the air rich with the scent of old pages, ink, and the faint hum of a vinyl record spinning somewhere in the back.

Through the window, the rain fell in silver threads, streaking down the glass like the memory of a world always just out of reach.

Jack sat at the corner table, his elbows resting on an open book, a history text filled with dates and wars that no one seemed to remember. His grey eyes were sharp, but there was a tiredness behind them — a kind of resigned longing.

Across from him, Jeeny sat with a notebook, scribbling something in pencil — a sketch, a thought, maybe both. Her brown eyes glowed with the quiet fire of someone who still believes the world can be understood through feeling, not just formulas.

Between them hung the words of Michael Moritz, spoken with a mix of admiration and regret:
"My undergraduate degree was in history, and I wish I had been smart enough to really excel at maths, physics, chemistry or biology because... the voyagers and adventurers and real contributors - that's where they come from."

Jeeny: softly, as if tasting the words It’s a kind of sadness, isn’t it? To look back and think — “I studied the past, but the future belongs to someone else.”

Jack: half-smiling Sadness, or maybe just clarity. The voyagers he’s talking about — they build the engines, they design the algorithms, they decode the universe. The rest of us just… record what they’ve done.

Jeeny: shaking her head gently But recording is a kind of voyage, too. We travel through time, not space. Through human hearts, not planets.

Jack: leans back, skeptical You sound like you’re trying to romanticize history, Jeeny. It’s a graveyard of what-ifs. The scientists — they’re the ones who keep the world moving. They launch, while the rest of us just look back.

Host:
A gust of wind pressed against the window, the rain drumming harder now — like a heartbeat against glass. The café lights flickered, and for a moment, their faces were caught in that uncertain glow — one of doubt, the other of defiance.

Jeeny: You think creation only belongs to scientists? That voyaging only means sailing forward? What about the ones who map the soul — the artists, the writers, the storytellers?

Jack: quietly They’re the ones who watch, Jeeny. The voyagers are the ones who act. The inventors, the engineers, the biologists — they change the world. We just talk about it afterward.

Jeeny: leans forward, voice low and steady But without the talk, who would remember it? Who would understand what it all meant?

Jack: shrugs Maybe meaning doesn’t matter. Maybe what matters is the motion, the progress, the forward momentum.

Jeeny: smiling faintly And yet, even the Voyager spacecraft carried a record — a golden disc with music, languages, and art from Earth. Even in their greatest act of science, they couldn’t let go of story.

Host:
The rain softened, becoming a quiet murmur against the roof. The record player hissed softly as one song ended and another began — a melancholic jazz tune, the kind that made time feel circular instead of linear.

Jack: You always find the poetry in everything.

Jeeny: And you always strip it down to numbers.

Jack: grins slightly Someone has to keep your feet on the ground.

Jeeny: And someone has to remind you that the ground was once sea, and the sea was once sky.

Jack: chuckles softly That sounds like something a philosopher would say before a scientist proves them wrong.

Jeeny: Or before a scientist realizes they were both talking about the same truth, just in different languages.

Host:
A pause. The kind that stretches, alive with thought. Outside, the rain had nearly stopped, and the neon reflections on the wet pavement began to shimmer, like constellations fallen from the sky.

Jack’s fingers traced the edge of the book, lingering on a photograph of Galileo’s telescope. Jeeny watched him, her eyes soft, as though she could see the younger dreamer still buried somewhere inside him.

Jack: You know, when I was a kid, I wanted to be an astronaut. I’d lie on the roof and count stars until they blurred together. Then I grew up and learned about gravity, vacuum, equations — all the things that make the magic disappear.

Jeeny: gently Maybe the magic doesn’t disappear, Jack. Maybe it just changes form. Maybe the equations are the new constellations — you just have to learn how to see them.

Jack: smiling wistfully You make it sound like the laws of physics are a poem.

Jeeny: softly Maybe they are. Every law is just a story the universe tells us, waiting for someone to listen.

Host:
The candle between them flickered, the flame bending slightly toward Jeeny as if drawn by her faith. Jack watched the light, his expression shifting — from defense to wonder, from argument to acceptance.

Jack: You know, maybe Moritz was right about one thing. The voyagers, the adventurers, the contributors — they’re born from science. But maybe they also need the dreamers.

Jeeny: nods They always have. Every formula starts as a story — every theory begins with a what if. The scientist is just a storyteller who uses numbers instead of words.

Jack: quietly And the historian is the one who makes sure the story isn’t forgotten.

Jeeny: smiles Exactly. One looks forward, the other looks back. But both are voyagers — just in opposite directions.

Host:
The record reached its end, the needle whispering softly in static. The café clock ticked toward midnight, and the rain had completely stopped. Outside, the streetlights reflected on the wet asphalt like liquid stars.

Jack closed the book, his hand resting on its cover, and Jeeny leaned back in her chair, her gaze distant, but her presence steady.

For a moment, neither spoke — the silence itself becoming the conversation.

Jack: softly Maybe Moritz was wrong. Maybe the real voyagers aren’t defined by their discipline, but by their curiosity.

Jeeny: nods slowly Curiosity — the one thing history and science share. The courage to ask, even when the answers are impossible.

Jack: smiling faintly So maybe you were right, after all. Maybe the past isn’t a graveyard. Maybe it’s a compass.

Jeeny: And maybe the future isn’t a destination. Maybe it’s a story still being written.

Host:
The camera would have lingered there — on the two of them, framed in light and shadow, surrounded by books, coffee, and the soft hum of a world still turning. The flame in the candle trembled one last time, then held steady, as if the universe itself were nodding in agreement.

And as the scene faded, the truth of the night remained, quiet but unmistakable —

That the real voyagers are not bound by discipline,
but by the desire to understand.

Fade out.