No matter what business you are in, there is change, and it's

Host: The city was bathed in the cold, blue light of neon. Rain drizzled across the glass of a corner café, each drop sliding down like a memory too heavy to hold. Inside, the air was thick with coffee, smoke, and the faint hum of late-night traffic. Jack sat by the window, his grey eyes fixed on the reflections of passing cars, fingers drumming on the table as if to measure time itself. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her cup slowly, watching the steam rise and fade, like change itself—constant, fleeting, and inevitable.

Host: On the table between them, a crumpled napkin bore the words of Jim Pattison:
“No matter what business you are in, there is change, and it's happening pretty quickly.”

Jeeny: “It’s true, isn’t it? Change doesn’t ask for permission. It just comes, like the rain. You can either stand in it or move with it.”

Jack: “You make it sound romantic, Jeeny. But change isn’t some beautiful storm. It’s a reckoning. A business today can be thriving, and tomorrow it’s obsolete. Look at Kodak—they invented digital cameras, then ignored them. Change didn’t reward their vision; it punished their hesitation.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes lifted, the soft glow from the café lamp catching the gold flecks in her brown irises. She paused, absorbing his words, then spoke with a calm, measured tone.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the point, Jack? Change is not the enemy. It’s a mirror. It shows who we are when everything around us shifts. Kodak forgot who they were—artists of memory—because they feared to evolve. That’s not change’s fault. That’s fear’s fault.”

Jack: “Fear is rational, Jeeny. Change means risk, and risk means loss. Not everyone has the luxury to embrace it with poetry. Some have bills, families, mortgages. You can’t just tell them to ‘dance in the rain.’”

Jeeny: “I’m not talking about dancing, Jack. I’m talking about adapting—with heart, not just strategy. Look at Netflix. They were mailing DVDs once. Then they saw what was coming and became what they feared—the future. They trusted their instincts, not just their numbers.”

Host: A moment of silence settled, thick and electric. Outside, a bus splashed through a puddle, sending a spray of light and water against the window. Jack watched it drip down, his reflection splintered by movement.

Jack: “And what about the people left behind, Jeeny? Every time a company evolves, someone loses a job, a purpose, a place in the world. The factory worker replaced by automation. The cashier replaced by a screen. You call that progress?”

Jeeny: “You’re right, Jack. Change hurts. But so does stagnation. Those same workers, if given training, support, vision, could evolve, too. It’s not change that’s cruel—it’s how we manage it. We decide whether it destroys or transforms.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his jaw tightening, the tension in his hands visible beneath the table. The rain grew heavier, a metallic rhythm on the roof.

Jack: “You talk like the world cares enough to manage anything. It doesn’t. The market is a beast, Jeeny. It eats what’s weak, and it moves on. No sentiment, no morality—just momentum. The ones who can’t adapt get trampled.”

Jeeny: “And yet, somehow, humanity survives, doesn’t it? Through wars, recessions, pandemics. We adapt, yes—but not because we’re machines. Because we feel, connect, imagine. That’s the real power behind change—our ability to make it mean something.”

Host: The steam from Jeeny’s cup rose like a veil between them, softening the edges of their faces. For a moment, the café seemed to suspend in time, the rain outside a steady metronome for their breathing.

Jack: “You’re talking about meaning as if the world still listens to it. But change today is algorithmic, data-driven, soulless. Do you really believe a machine can understand the value of art, or truth, or hope?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not yet. But who teaches the machine, Jack? Who codes it? Who chooses what it learns? We do. That’s our choice, our responsibility. Change doesn’t strip us of humanity; it tests how much of it we’re willing to keep.”

Host: Her voice cracked slightly at the edge of the sentence, and the emotion in her eyes unraveled the steel in Jack’s expression. He looked away, his reflection in the window fragmented by the rain, as though even the city itself was changing faster than he could grasp.

Jack: “When I was a kid, my father worked in a printing factory. Twenty-five years of ink, paper, presses. Then one day, a manager came in with a digital printer the size of a desk, and that was it. Twenty-five years, gone in a click. He never recovered. So forgive me if I don’t romanticize change.”

Jeeny: “I’m sorry, Jack.” (Her voice was soft, trembling.) “But your father’s story is exactly why change needs compassion. Not just innovation—compassion. We can build a future that moves quickly and still remembers who it’s leaving behind.”

Host: The words hung in the air, tender and heavy. The rain eased, and the neon light blurred through the glass in a watery glow. Jack’s eyes softened, the lines of tension in his face loosening like rope finally untied.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… maybe you’re right. Maybe change isn’t the villain. Maybe it’s the mirror, like you said. But it’s a damn honest mirror—it shows us who’s ready, and who’s not.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s why we need each other, Jack. You see the mirror, I see the light. Together, we can see the whole picture.”

Host: The rain stopped. A single droplet clung to the edge of the window, then fell, leaving a clear streak where the light shone through. Jack smiled, faintly but real—a man who had argued, hurt, and understood. Jeeny returned the smile, her eyes reflecting both warmth and resolve.

Host: Outside, the city hummed with motion again—cars, voices, screens, dreams—each fragment of change flowing into the next. And inside the café, two souls sat in the stillness after the storm, knowing that nothing stays the same—and that was, perhaps, the point all along.