Old friends are best.

Host: The evening sun lingered on the edge of winter, spilling gold and dust across the worn wooden floorboards of a small cabin by the lake. The fireplace crackled, throwing shadows that danced lazily across the walls, and the faint smell of pine hung in the air — sharp, nostalgic, alive.

Jack sat slouched in an old leather chair, his boots muddy, his hands wrapped around a chipped mug of whiskey instead of coffee. Jeeny sat near the window, her knees pulled close, her face lit by the orange firelight. Between them lay the soft silence of people who have spoken too much and still not said everything.

Host: Outside, the lake mirrored the dying sun, smooth and unbroken — except for the faint ripples that the wind and time always leave behind.

Jeeny: “John Selden once said, ‘Old friends are best.’”

Jack: smirking faintly “Of course he did. Easy to say when you have any left.”

Jeeny: “You talk like friendship has an expiration date.”

Jack: “Doesn’t it? We grow, we move, we disappoint. Old friends fade like photographs — still beautiful, but no longer part of the present.”

Host: The fire popped, a small burst of amber light breaking through the dimness. Jeeny turned from the window, her eyes deep, holding the weight of memory.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what makes them best — because they know the old versions of us. The ones before the scars, before the cynicism.”

Jack: “Or maybe that’s the problem. They keep seeing who we were, not who we’ve become. They love ghosts, not people.”

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who’s forgotten how to be known.”

Jack: “And you sound like someone who still believes in permanence.”

Host: The wind outside grew stronger, pressing against the windows, the glass trembling faintly as if even the air wished to join their conversation.

Jeeny: “You remember Luke?”

Jack: “Of course.”

Jeeny: “You didn’t call him when he lost his father.”

Jack: staring into his mug “I didn’t know what to say.”

Jeeny: “That’s the thing about old friends, Jack. You don’t need to say anything. You just show up.”

Jack: quietly “Yeah, well, sometimes showing up feels like reopening a wound.”

Host: The fire hissed, sending up a small spark that drifted like a falling star before vanishing. The room’s warmth thickened, mingled with something unseen — the ache of unspoken guilt.

Jeeny: “You think time heals everything, but it doesn’t. It just buries things. Friendship isn’t about never changing. It’s about letting each other change and still recognizing the heartbeat beneath it.”

Jack: “You sound like a poet. Or a therapist.”

Jeeny: “I’m just someone who refuses to let love become archaeology.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his eyes flickering toward her, a mix of amusement and pain in the faint firelight.

Jack: “You really believe old friends are better than new ones?”

Jeeny: “Not better. Just... deeper. They hold your history. New friends see your shine, but old friends know your cracks — and stay anyway.”

Jack: “And what if they don’t?”

Jeeny: “Then they weren’t old enough.”

Host: The firelight caught the edge of her face, softening the lines, turning her into something almost timeless — as if she herself had stepped out of a memory.

Jack: “You know, I had a friend once. We used to talk about everything — dreams, mistakes, even death. Then one day, he stopped calling. I told myself I didn’t care. But sometimes, when it’s quiet like this… I still half expect him to knock on the door.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he’s waiting for you to knock first.”

Jack: bitter laugh “Maybe. But pride’s a stubborn lock.”

Jeeny: “So is loneliness.”

Host: Silence filled the room, heavy but not cruel. The flames had softened to a gentle glow, the orange light flickering against the bottles on the shelf like faint memories refusing to die.

Jeeny: “You ever think about how friendship is like the fire?”

Jack: “How so?”

Jeeny: “You have to feed it. Not too much, not too little. Leave it alone too long, and it dies. But if you care for it, it warms you for years.”

Jack: “And eventually burns out anyway.”

Jeeny: “Only if you stop tending it.”

Host: Her voice, soft but steady, seemed to echo against the wood, filling the space between cynicism and faith.

Jack: “You know, I envy that about you. You still believe in people.”

Jeeny: “It’s not belief, Jack. It’s memory. I remember what people can be when they’re honest. When they’re afraid but still kind. When they don’t walk away.”

Jack: “And if they already walked away?”

Jeeny: “Then remember them kindly. That’s what makes old friends best — even when they’re gone, they still keep you human.”

Host: The fire dimmed, and the room’s shadows began to stretch, reaching across the floor like long-lost arms. Jack set his mug down, and for a long moment, he said nothing. Then his voice dropped, lower than before, almost like a confession.

Jack: “I miss who I was when I had people like that.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you should find them again.”

Jack: “Maybe I will.”

Host: The wind outside softened, brushing against the cabin walls like an old friend returning after years away. The flames whispered, fragile but alive, casting the two figures in gentle, forgiving light.

Jeeny: “You know, Selden was right. Old friends are best. Not because they never leave — but because even when they do, they leave something behind.”

Jack: half-smiling “A trace.”

Jeeny: “A warmth.”

Jack: “A reminder that we weren’t always this cold.”

Host: The fire sighed, collapsing into embers, their glow fading but not gone — much like the friendships that time may blur but never truly erases.

Outside, the lake shimmered under the first stars, the wind carrying faint echoes of laughter from years long gone.

Host: And in that flickering light — between whiskey and silence, between cynicism and grace — two souls remembered that the oldest friendships, like the oldest flames, never truly die. They simply wait for someone to stir them back to life.