No one wants to die. Even people who want to go to heaven don't

Host: The sky was painted in hues of amber and violet, the sun sinking behind the industrial skyline like an exhausted god retreating from the world it once built. A slow wind stirred the fallen leaves in circles, whispering the sound of something ending.

Beneath an old rail bridge, Jack and Jeeny sat on a wooden bench, cups of coffee growing cold between their hands. The distant rumble of trains echoed through the hollow air, the metallic rhythm pulsing like a heartbeat of a world too busy to notice its own mortality.

Jack’s coat collar was turned up, his grey eyes lost in thought. Jeeny’s hair fluttered gently, catching the last rays of dusk like strands of fire. Between them — a silence not of emptiness, but of reflection.

Jeeny: “You know, Steve Jobs once said — ‘No one wants to die. Even people who want to go to heaven don't want to die to get there…’”

Host: Her voice lingered in the air, delicate, trembling with the kind of quiet reverence one reserves for truths too large to fully hold.

Jack: “Yeah. I remember that one. Said it during his Stanford speech. Everyone called it inspiring.”

Jeeny: “It was. He called death ‘Life’s change agent’. That it clears out the old to make way for the new.”

Jack: (smirking faintly) “Change agent. Only a CEO would describe death like that.”

Host: A faint smile tugged at Jeeny’s lips, but her eyes stayed serious, tracing the glow of the streetlights coming alive one by one.

Jeeny: “You mock it, but he wasn’t wrong. Death gives life meaning. Without it, everything would be static, eternal — and meaningless.”

Jack: “Meaningless? No. Eternal life would just mean infinite chances. Infinite time to fix what we break.”

Jeeny: “And no reason to ever fix anything at all. If time never ends, urgency dies. Purpose dies. Don’t you see? It’s the finiteness that makes us care.”

Host: The wind blew colder, carrying with it the distant sound of a church bell, faint and ghostly. Jack’s fingers tightened around the cup, the steam fading into the twilight like a vanishing spirit.

Jack: “That’s the idealist in you talking again. In the real world, death’s just loss. Jobs might’ve found poetry in it, but people don’t. Ask a mother who’s lost her child if she sees death as an invention of life.”

Jeeny: “And yet, every mother who gives birth knows she’s creating a mortal being. Death was part of the deal from the start. It doesn’t make it less painful — but it makes it real. It keeps us human.”

Jack: “Real or not, I’d take an illusion over a coffin any day.”

Host: The train roared past, the ground trembling under their feet, a metallic symphony of movement and decay. When the noise faded, their voices felt softer — more fragile.

Jeeny: “You know, ancient Egyptians believed that to speak the name of the dead was to make them live again. Maybe that’s how death works — not as an end, but as a space where memory keeps breathing.”

Jack: “You always find poetry in pain. You ever think that’s a way of running from it?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s how I face it. When my father died, I hated the silence that followed. But one day, I realized — the silence was him too. Just… changed. Transformed.”

Host: A faint shiver ran through her voice, and Jack’s eyes softened for a moment, the way a storm softens when it remembers it was once rain.

Jack: “Transformation. Sounds beautiful when you say it. But what if there’s nothing after? Just dark. Just… nothing.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s still something. Maybe the nothingness itself is peaceful. Maybe life isn’t meant to promise forever — only this moment.”

Jack: “You sound like a Buddhist monk.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they understood something we’ve forgotten — that death isn’t the opposite of life. It’s part of it.”

Host: The light flickered from the passing train, washing their faces in gold and shadow, like a flickering film reel playing a story older than time.

Jack: “You know what I think, Jeeny? Death’s just evolution’s cleanup process. Nature’s garbage collection. You die, and the world keeps spinning — no poetry, no peace. Just efficiency.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you’re still here wondering what it means. Doesn’t sound like you’ve made peace with that efficiency.”

Jack: “Who has? Even Jobs — the man who changed how we live — he didn’t want to die either. He fought it. All the money, all the genius — and in the end, same finish line.”

Jeeny: “That’s what makes it fair, Jack. Death’s the one thing that doesn’t discriminate. It’s the great equalizer. Rich, poor, genius, fool — all cleared to make way for the new.”

Host: The sound of distant footsteps echoed down the empty street, then faded, leaving only the rustle of leaves and the hum of electric wires above.

Jack: “You call that fair? Fairness would be a choice. To stay or to go.”

Jeeny: “Choice is an illusion too. Even when we think we’re deciding, life’s been preparing us for its end since the moment we began.”

Jack: “Then what’s the point of all this striving? The love, the work, the pain — if it all vanishes?”

Jeeny: “It doesn’t vanish. It transforms. Every act, every word, changes something. Jobs built machines, yes, but what he really built was connection. The new that replaced the old — that was him continuing.”

Host: The moonlight caught the reflection of her eyes, turning them into small universes of conviction.

Jack: “You believe in legacies. I don’t. They fade too. People remember you until they don’t.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you keep talking about them.”

Host: Jack fell silent, his jaw tightening. The air between them grew still, charged with the quiet ache of things left unsaid.

Jack: “So you’re saying death’s not the enemy?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s the teacher. It reminds us to live honestly. To say what we mean. To love without rehearsing.”

Jack: “That’s the kind of talk people use to comfort themselves.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But comfort’s a kind of truth too.”

Host: The bridge lights above flickered, casting long shadows that stretched like reaching hands. The night smelled of rust, rain, and unspoken understanding.

Jack: “You know what scares me most? Not dying — but being forgotten. Just gone, like you never mattered.”

Jeeny: “Then make something that matters. Love someone deeply. Forgive someone completely. That’s how you cheat oblivion.”

Jack: “And when they die?”

Jeeny: “Then you keep their light alive in yours.”

Host: A train thundered past once more — this time slower, its windows glowing, filled with anonymous faces. For a fleeting moment, Jack and Jeeny saw their own reflections there — alive, small, impermanent.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what Jobs meant. Death clears the way — not just for others, but for new versions of ourselves. Every loss, every ending… forces us to begin again.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s terrifying. But it’s beautiful too.”

Host: The wind softened, brushing across their faces like a gentle hand. Somewhere in the distance, the city began to quiet, as though exhaling.

Jack: “So maybe… death isn’t life’s enemy. Maybe it’s its editor.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “And we’re just the drafts.”

Host: A small laugh escaped them both — weary, human, and full of the fragile courage that comes with understanding one more fragment of the inevitable. The last train of the night passed, its light fading into the horizon like a promise kept.

They sat in silence, watching as the stars emerged, ancient and indifferent — yet somehow kind.

Host: The night deepened, wrapping the world in its dark, gentle arms. And as the city’s pulse slowed, Jack and Jeeny simply breathed — not fearing death, not worshipping it — but honoring it, as one honors the rhythm of life itself.

And somewhere in the quiet, death waited, patient, eternal — not as an ending, but as the soft hand that turns the page.