People are just afraid of things too much. Afraid of things that

Host: The boardwalk stretched out beneath a storm-heavy sky, wooden planks slick with sea spray and old stories. The Atlantic wind howled low through the broken ribs of shuttered stalls — forgotten stands that once sold postcards and cotton candy now hung with peeling paint and silence.

The ocean, restless and gray, crashed against the pylons in endless rhythm — anger and beauty intertwined. Seagulls cut through the air, their cries sharp as regret.

Beneath a flickering streetlamp, Jack leaned against the railing, cigarette cupped in his hand, watching the horizon like someone expecting a confession. Jeeny sat cross-legged on the rail beside him, hood drawn up, a half-empty cup of coffee between her palms.

Jeeny: “Frank Ocean once said, ‘People are just afraid of things too much. Afraid of things that don’t necessarily merit fear.’”

Jack: (smirking) “That’s an easy thing to say when you’re not staring down a storm.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s the only thing to say when you are.”

Jack: “You think fear’s that simple? Just a choice we make?”

Jeeny: “Not simple. But exaggerated. We give it more stage time than it deserves.”

Host: The wind surged, tugging at their coats, the waves roaring like a voice too big for language. A strand of Jeeny’s hair caught in the wind — she brushed it aside without looking away from the horizon.

Jeeny: “You know what I think? Most fear doesn’t protect us. It performs for us. We hold on to it like superstition, because being afraid feels like doing something.”

Jack: “That’s poetic, but wrong. Fear keeps you alive. You don’t cross the street without it. You don’t touch fire twice.”

Jeeny: “But Frank wasn’t talking about fire. He was talking about living. About how we treat the unknown like a disease.”

Jack: “That’s because it can hurt us.”

Jeeny: “Or heal us. Depending on how we meet it.”

Host: A burst of thunder rumbled deep in the distance — not a roar, but a warning. The first drops of rain began to fall, slow and deliberate, like punctuation marks from the sky.

Jack: “So what — you’re saying fear is optional?”

Jeeny: “I’m saying it’s inflated. We fear failure, judgment, love, silence — all the invisible things. The things that don’t actually bite. We live as if embarrassment were mortal.”

Jack: “Embarrassment is mortal when pride’s all you’ve got.”

Jeeny: (laughing softly) “Exactly. That’s the problem. Pride’s just fear wearing a tuxedo.”

Host: The rain thickened. The boardwalk darkened under the downpour. Jack flicked his cigarette into a puddle; it hissed, died, and was gone.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I used to think courage meant not being afraid. Now I think it’s just deciding not to care what fear says.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Frank meant. Fear doesn’t have to disappear — it just has to stop leading.”

Jack: “Still, it’s easier said than done. Fear feels real because consequences are real.”

Jeeny: “But consequences aren’t always disasters. Sometimes they’re doorways.”

Jack: “Doorways to what?”

Jeeny: “To who you could’ve been if you didn’t flinch.”

Host: Lightning struck far out over the water — for an instant, the sea turned to glass, reflecting the entire sky in silver. Then darkness again, thicker than before.

Jack: “So you think people are cowards?”

Jeeny: “No. I think they’re too careful. There’s a difference. Cowardice hides; caution hesitates. And somewhere between them, life passes by.”

Jack: “And you think Frank Ocean figured out how not to be afraid?”

Jeeny: “No one figures it out. He just refused to pretend fear was wisdom. That’s the real trick.”

Jack: “You mean — don’t confuse being safe with being smart.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Sometimes safety is the slowest form of dying.”

Host: The rain was relentless now — the sea, the sky, and the boardwalk merged into one trembling sheet of motion. Jeeny’s coffee was cold, untouched. Jack’s eyes followed the horizon as if searching for something just beyond the reach of the storm.

Jack: “You ever think we’re addicted to fear? The news, social media, even love — it’s all framed around danger. Maybe we don’t know how to live without anxiety anymore.”

Jeeny: “Because fear gives us focus. It organizes chaos. It tells us where to look, what to avoid. But it’s a bad teacher. It keeps repeating the same lesson — stay small.”

Jack: “And you want to fail that class.”

Jeeny: “Every day.”

Host: The storm softened — rain easing into drizzle, drizzle into mist. The ocean quieted, as though exhausted by its own warning.

Jack: “You ever notice how storms are like fear? Loud when they start, but they fade the moment you stop running from them.”

Jeeny: “Because facing something drains its power. Fear feeds on distance.”

Jack: “And dies in intimacy.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The sky cracked open above them — not with lightning now, but with light, faint and forgiving. The clouds began to thin, and a single star appeared, defiant against the leftover gray.

Jeeny: “You know, Frank Ocean’s right — we fear too much. We think fear is the cost of being careful, but it’s the tax on being human. Every good thing starts just past the border of fear.”

Jack: “You mean love, art, truth — all the big ones.”

Jeeny: “All the beautiful ones. Fear protects you from loss, but it also protects you from wonder.”

Jack: “So the goal isn’t to kill fear, but to shrink it.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Until it fits in your pocket, like a lucky coin — something you carry, but don’t consult for every choice.”

Host: The storm’s last raindrops clung to the rail, shimmering like small truths in the light. Jeeny stood, pulling her hood down, her face open to the wind.

Jeeny: “You know what’s funny? Fear is always loud at first. But courage, when it finally speaks, whispers.”

Jack: “And still, somehow, it’s the only voice worth following.”

Host: The ocean rolled quietly now, calmer, tamed by time and tide. The air was fresh — that sweet, metallic scent after rain.

And in that fragile stillness, Frank Ocean’s words seemed to hum beneath the surface of the night, soft but insistent — a melody made of truth:

That fear is not the enemy,
but the echo of imagination misused.
That most of what we fear never arrives,
and the things that do are rarely as cruel as our anticipation.

That life begins the moment fear becomes background noise —
the static beneath the song,
not the song itself.

Host: Jeeny turned toward Jack, her eyes reflecting the faint starlight.

Jeeny: “You scared right now?”

Jack: “Yeah.”

Jeeny: “Good. Means you’re still awake.”

Host: They both laughed, quiet and real,
and as the last of the clouds drifted away,
the ocean breathed,
the world exhaled,
and fear — that old, familiar ghost —
slipped silently back into the depths,
where it belonged.