Only the person who has faith in himself is able to be faithful

Host: The evening sky bled into shades of copper and grey as the sun sank behind the old clock tower. The city had that particular quiet that comes right before night fully claims it — a hush made of memory, light, and the faint hum of lives still moving somewhere unseen.

In a small park café, tucked between bookstores and bicycle racks, two figures sat by the window — Jack, with his usual calm severity, and Jeeny, whose eyes reflected both the warmth of the setting sun and the restlessness of thought.

Their coffee had gone cold. Their conversation, anything but.

On the table lay an open book, its pages faintly yellowed, the name Erich Fromm etched across the top. Jeeny had just read the line aloud:

“Only the person who has faith in himself is able to be faithful to others.” — Erich Fromm

The words lingered in the air, soft but heavy, like a truth too intimate to touch.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? That faith in yourself isn’t just about confidence — it’s the foundation of loyalty. Fromm’s saying you can’t truly love, trust, or commit to someone if you don’t believe in who you are first.”

Jack: “Or he’s saying something simpler — that self-respect comes before devotion. You can’t keep promises to others if you’re still breaking them with yourself.”

Host: Jack’s voice was low, measured, but there was a faint tremor beneath it — the kind that only comes from experience. He looked out the window, watching a couple walk by, hands intertwined, their laughter echoing faintly.

Jeeny: “So you agree with him?”

Jack: (smirking) “I agree in theory. In practice, people don’t work like that. The world’s full of people who’ve lost faith in themselves but still stay, still care, still fight for others. Parents who don’t believe they’re good enough but still raise their kids. Lovers who think they’re broken but still give everything. Fromm’s too idealistic.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. That’s exactly his point. They can love, but it’s often fragile, desperate — full of fear that they’ll fail. It’s not faith. It’s dependence dressed as devotion.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice was gentle, but her words landed like stones in water — slow, deep, deliberate. Jack’s eyes flickered, the kind of flicker that comes when a truth grazes something old and unhealed.

Jack: “You’re saying self-doubt poisons love?”

Jeeny: “I’m saying self-doubt makes it conditional. You can’t give freely when you’re not whole. Because every promise becomes a way to prove something to yourself — and that’s not faith, that’s fear.”

Host: The sunlight through the window had turned golden, slicing across the table and catching in Jeeny’s hair. For a moment, she looked like something lit from within — conviction turned visible.

Jack: “You sound like someone who’s never been in love.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Maybe I’ve just been in love with people who didn’t believe they deserved it. And you?”

Jack: (pausing) “Once. She said I was distant. That I didn’t trust her enough. The truth is… I didn’t trust myself. I didn’t think I could keep what I loved without breaking it.”

Host: His fingers tightened around the mug, his knuckles pale. For a moment, the world seemed to quiet, even the rain outside slowing as if it, too, were listening.

Jeeny: “That’s exactly it. When we lose faith in ourselves, we turn love into a test instead of a gift. We start needing proof instead of giving presence.”

Jack: “So what? We’re all doomed until we’re fully self-assured? That’s not human, Jeeny. No one’s ever completely whole.”

Jeeny: “Faith isn’t perfection, Jack. It’s permission. It’s telling yourself, ‘I may fail, but I still have worth.’ That’s enough to keep you steady — enough to be faithful to someone else without losing yourself in the process.”

Host: The light dimmed, the shadows on their faces shifted. A soft breeze moved through the open door, carrying the scent of rain and earth, grounding them both in something wordless.

Jack: “You know, I always thought faith was about believing in something bigger — God, fate, justice. I never thought about believing in myself as a moral act.”

Jeeny: “But it is. Because when you stop trusting yourself, you start depending on other people to define your worth. That’s when love turns into possession, friendship turns into transaction, and promises turn into bargains.”

Jack: “So, self-faith is… the root of fidelity.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Fromm wasn’t talking about religion — he was talking about integrity. About the kind of person who can look in the mirror and still say, ‘I am trying, I am enough.’ Only that person can truly keep their word to others.”

Host: Her voice softened, but her eyes held their fire. The rain had stopped, and the glass now caught the neon glow of a nearby sign, bathing them both in a faint blue light — melancholy, but calm.

Jack: “Funny. I’ve always thought of faith as blind. But maybe the most faithful act is to see yourself clearly — flaws and all — and still believe you can love and be loved.”

Jeeny: “That’s not blindness, Jack. That’s courage.”

Host: He laughed, quietly — not mockingly, but with the kind of relief that comes when something inside finally makes sense. He looked at Jeeny, then down at the open book between them, tracing the printed line with his finger.

Jack: “Only the person who has faith in himself is able to be faithful to others…” (He nods slowly.) “Maybe that’s why betrayal hurts so much — not because someone stopped loving us, but because somewhere in them, they stopped believing they could.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Exactly. Betrayal begins inside the self long before it ever reaches someone else.”

Host: A brief silence. Then Jeeny reached for her coffee, took a quiet sip, and smiled — a small, tired, human smile. Jack watched, his own expression softening into something that wasn’t quite happiness, but wasn’t pain either — something in between, something real.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe that’s what faith really is — not confidence, not arrogance, but the quiet decision to stay true to yourself, even when it’s hard.”

Jack: “And that’s what makes it possible to stay true to someone else.”

Host: The clock tower outside chimed, slow and heavy. The world beyond the window had darkened, but inside the café, the light still glowed — warm, stubborn, steady.

Jack stood, pulled on his coat, and for a moment, just looked at Jeeny. His eyes held the faintest trace of peace — the kind that comes after long understanding.

Jack: “Maybe faith isn’t something you’re born with. Maybe it’s something you practice — like honesty, or love.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You practice it until it becomes your nature. Until the way you treat yourself becomes the way you treat the world.”

Host: As they stepped outside, the rain had washed the streets clean. The lamplight reflected off the puddles, and the air felt new, almost forgiving.

They walked in silence, side by side, their shadows stretching long behind them — not perfect, but faithful.

And as the camera pulled back, the last light of the café flickered in the window — a quiet glow, a symbol of self-belief burning against the dark, whispering the truth of Fromm’s words:
that to have faith in oneself is not arrogance — it is the only way to ever truly keep another.