Our attitude towards others determines their attitude towards us.

Host: The rain came down in quiet curtains, blurring the world beyond the café window into a watercolor of moving lights. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of coffee and comfort, of unsaid things and words still forming. The clock above the counter ticked slowly — that kind of steady, indifferent rhythm that makes conversations linger longer than they should.

At a corner table, near the fogged glass, Jack sat in his usual way — one hand wrapped around a half-empty cup, his grey eyes tracing invisible shapes in the steam. Across from him, Jeeny leaned forward, her chin resting on her hand, her brown eyes steady, unflinching, curious.

Pinned to the corkboard behind the counter, faded from years of sun and espresso steam, was a small card with a handwritten quote:

"Our attitude towards others determines their attitude towards us." — Earl Nightingale.

Host: It had been there so long that no one noticed it anymore — except for tonight, when Jeeny pointed it out, her finger tracing the edge of the words like they were new.

Jeeny: (softly) Do you believe that?

Jack: (without looking up) That our attitude shapes others’? (pauses) Maybe. Or maybe it’s just wishful thinking. People are who they are, Jeeny. You smiling at a wolf doesn’t make it stop hunting.

Jeeny: You always go straight for the wolves. (smiles) What about people who aren’t predators? People who are just... lost? Sometimes they just need a mirror that shows them kindness instead of suspicion.

Jack: Kindness doesn’t change human nature. I’ve been polite to plenty of people who still stabbed me in the back — just with better manners.

Jeeny: Then maybe your politeness wasn’t kindness. There’s a difference.

Host: Her voice was gentle, but it cut clean — like silk sliding across glass. Jack’s jaw tightened slightly, the faintest trace of defensiveness in his eyes.

Jack: You think I fake kindness?

Jeeny: No. I think you ration it — like it’s gasoline in wartime. You give it out only when you think it’ll get you somewhere safe.

Jack: (half-smiling) And you? You give it away like confetti and wonder why the floor’s always a mess afterward.

Jeeny: Better a mess made of confetti than silence made of fear.

Host: The rain tapped faster against the glass, as if applauding her words. The lights outside flickered, casting reflections across their faces — two philosophies colliding beneath the hum of the storm.

Jack: Nightingale was an optimist. He believed the universe works like a mirror — smile at it, and it smiles back. But the truth is, sometimes the universe spits in your face just to see if you’ll still smile.

Jeeny: And that’s the test, isn’t it? To smile anyway. Not because you expect something back, but because your own peace depends on it.

Jack: That’s naïve.

Jeeny: No. It’s discipline.

Jack: Discipline is control. What you’re describing is surrender.

Jeeny: (leans closer) No, Jack. It’s strength. Anyone can mirror hate. It takes strength to stay soft in a hard world.

Host: The silence that followed wasn’t empty; it was dense, vibrating with the quiet thunder of thought. Outside, a car passed slowly through the flooded street, its headlights painting the room in fleeting gold.

Jack: (softly) You sound like you’ve practiced that.

Jeeny: Maybe I have. The world taught me that bitterness doesn’t protect you — it just isolates you. I’d rather be wounded and open than safe and alone.

Jack: That’s the poet in you talking.

Jeeny: And the cynic in you just called that weakness.

Host: Her words lingered in the air, like the faint taste of coffee after the last sip. Jack looked at her, and for a fleeting second, something softened — a crack in the armor, a flicker of something almost vulnerable.

Jack: You know, there’s something dangerous about kindness. Once people know you’ll forgive them, they start testing how much pain you’ll tolerate.

Jeeny: That’s not kindness. That’s lack of boundaries. The two aren’t the same.

Jack: Maybe. But I’ve seen enough to know that no good deed goes unpunished.

Jeeny: And yet — you keep doing them.

Jack: (shrugs) Habit, I guess. Or maybe I’m just proving myself wrong.

Jeeny: Or proving Nightingale right.

Host: The rain slowed now, softening into mist. The window cleared enough for their reflections to appear side by side — two faces blurred together by the faint glow of lamplight.

Jeeny: Do you remember that old man we met last winter? The one who used to sit outside the train station, selling drawings for coins?

Jack: The one who tried to give you a portrait for free? Yeah. What about him?

Jeeny: I asked him once why he kept doing it when most people just ignored him. You know what he said? “If I stop smiling, no one will look at me at all.”

Jack: (quietly) That’s… sad.

Jeeny: No. That’s survival. He learned that his attitude shaped the world’s reflection. That’s what Nightingale meant — not that kindness always wins, but that it changes the temperature of the room, even when it can’t change the weather.

Jack: (softly) Change the temperature, not the weather. Huh. (pauses) That’s actually… not bad.

Jeeny: (smiles) Careful. That almost sounded like agreement.

Host: The clock ticked once more — louder this time, or maybe just noticed. The café had emptied, leaving only the two of them and the quiet hum of the espresso machine cooling in the corner.

Jack: You really think attitude is contagious?

Jeeny: Of course. Haven’t you ever walked into a room where someone was furious? The air changes. You don’t need to be touched to feel it.

Jack: So if I walk in calm, others will be calm?

Jeeny: Maybe not all at once. But it starts somewhere. Someone has to hold the mirror first.

Jack: (after a long pause) You make it sound like a revolution disguised as politeness.

Jeeny: Maybe it is. Maybe changing the world starts with how you speak to the barista, how you look at a stranger, how you listen when it would be easier not to.

Host: A faint smile ghosted across Jack’s face — not full, not surrender, but something like understanding.

Jack: You think I could pull that off? The mirror thing?

Jeeny: You already do. You just hide it under sarcasm so no one notices.

Jack: So you’ve noticed.

Jeeny: Always.

Host: The rain had stopped completely now. A single ray of moonlight broke through the clouds, slipping between the blinds and landing squarely on the small card behind the counter — Earl Nightingale’s words glowing softly in the reflection.

Jeeny: You know, Jack… sometimes the way you look at someone is the first permission they ever get to look at themselves differently.

Jack: (quietly) And sometimes the way someone looks at you makes you wish you could start over.

Host: The moment held — two people sitting in a café at the edge of midnight, realizing that attitude wasn’t just about others, but about themselves.

Outside, the streets shimmered with the remnants of rain — a mirror city reflecting lights, faces, and second chances.

Host: And on the wall, the old quote seemed to whisper its quiet truth into the air once more:

"Our attitude towards others determines their attitude towards us."

Host: Because in the end, kindness — like light — doesn’t ask for permission to reflect. It just does.