People change and forget to tell each other.

Host: The train station was almost empty — a Sunday evening, the kind that feels like a half-remembered dream. The lights hummed softly above, their pale glow spilling across the wet platform. Rain tapped against the roof, steady and unhurried, like an old metronome keeping time with the heartbeats of those still waiting.

Jeeny sat on a cold bench, her hands wrapped around a cup of lukewarm coffee. Across from her stood Jack, one hand in his coat pocket, the other holding a ticket he hadn’t decided whether to use. The arrival board flickered behind him — delayed, delayed, delayed — as if the whole world was too tired to move forward.

Jeeny: “Lillian Hellman once said, ‘People change and forget to tell each other.’”

Jack: “Maybe that’s because it’s easier that way. Change is never the problem. It’s the announcement that breaks people.”

Host: His voice was calm but heavy, like a note held too long. He didn’t look at her when he spoke; his eyes were fixed somewhere in the distance, on the tracks disappearing into darkness.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what love or even friendship is, Jack? A promise to tell each other when we change — to share the journey, not just the destination?”

Jack: “Maybe in theory. But in reality, people just wake up one morning and realize they’ve outgrown the conversation they’ve been having for years. And what are they supposed to say? ‘Hey, I’m not who I was yesterday?’ It sounds arrogant, even when it’s true.”

Host: The rain thickened. The sound on the roof grew like the soft roar of distant applause, though no one was clapping for anyone anymore.

Jeeny: “You’ve changed.”

Jack: “So have you.”

Host: The words fell between them like two stones in a still pond, sending ripples that never quite touched.

Jeeny: “Then why does it feel like we forgot to say it out loud?”

Jack: “Because saying it makes it real.”

Host: Jack turned, his face caught in the thin neon light. The lines around his eyes looked deeper than she remembered, not from age, but from the weight of too many unsaid things.

Jeeny: “You used to be so sure of everything — of right and wrong, of where you were going. Now you just… drift.”

Jack: “And you used to believe everything could be saved — that every argument was a lesson, every mistake a chance to grow. But some things just end, Jeeny. That’s not failure — it’s physics. Energy fades. Orbits collapse.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound so cold. As if people are just atoms colliding.”

Jack: “Aren’t we? We collide, we spark, we burn, and then we cool. It’s what makes it all beautiful — and unbearable.”

Host: She looked at him, her eyes shimmering under the soft station light, like a mirror holding back a storm.

Jeeny: “But if we’re doomed to change, then why do we promise permanence? Why say ‘forever’ when we both know it’s just a poetic lie?”

Jack: “Because we want to believe the lie — until we can’t anymore. That’s what makes us human.”

Host: The speaker system crackled, announcing another delay. The sound broke the silence, but not the tension.

Jeeny: “Do you remember when we used to walk down by the river, after your rehearsals? You said you’d never become one of those people who outgrew their dreams.”

Jack: “I remember.”

Jeeny: “And yet here you are.”

Jack: “No, here I am. Just… someone else.”

Host: He said it softly, almost apologetically, as though the confession itself was fragile, something that could break if handled too roughly.

Jeeny: “So, you’re saying people change, and the kindest thing we can do is not mention it?”

Jack: “Sometimes. Because if you tell someone you’ve changed, you’re really telling them they haven’t.”

Jeeny: “That’s cruel.”

Jack: “It’s truth.”

Host: The wind slipped through the cracks of the platform, tugging at Jeeny’s hair, carrying with it the faint smell of iron and rain. She took a slow breath, her hands trembling slightly as she set her coffee cup down beside her.

Jeeny: “Do you ever miss who we were?”

Jack: “Every day. But missing isn’t the same as wanting to go back.”

Host: The lights above them flickered, a soft stutter that seemed to echo their own hesitation.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve already left.”

Jack: “Maybe I did. A long time ago. I just didn’t tell you.”

Host: Her eyes fell to the floor, watching the small puddle gathering beneath the bench, catching fragments of light and memory.

Jeeny: “Then why are you still here?”

Jack: “Because forgetting to tell you doesn’t mean I stopped caring.”

Jeeny: “And yet, not telling me — that’s its own kind of betrayal, isn’t it?”

Jack: “Maybe. But sometimes, silence is mercy.”

Host: The train lights appeared in the distance, a soft glow cutting through the rain. The rails began to hum, a low tremor of something that sounded like both arrival and ending.

Jeeny: “We always said we’d be honest with each other.”

Jack: “We were — until honesty meant admitting we’d both moved on.”

Host: The train drew closer, its sound swelling, filling the station with a mechanical heartbeat. Jack turned toward it, then back at her — his eyes full of something between sorrow and gratitude.

Jack: “You know what the real tragedy is? People don’t just change. They evolve into the versions of themselves that could have loved each other better — too late.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the kindest thing we can do is remember who we were, even if we can’t go back there.”

Host: The doors slid open with a soft hiss, letting out a wave of warm air. Neither of them moved. The moment stretched — fragile, suspended — as if the universe itself was giving them one last pause before it turned the page.

Jeeny: “If people change and forget to tell each other… maybe the forgetting is part of the growing.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s what makes growing so damn lonely.”

Host: The rain began to ease, the sound fading into soft drips from the roof. Jack stepped forward, then stopped, his hand tightening on the ticket.

Jack: “Take care, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “You too, Jack.”

Host: He turned, walking toward the train, his silhouette swallowed by the light. She watched him go, her eyes reflecting the shimmer of the departing cars, until the station was silent again.

Only her coffee cup remained, steam long gone, beside a single puddle that mirrored the neon lights above — trembling, beautiful, and fleeting.

The camera pulled back. The station grew smaller in the frame, the rain fell softer, and the world continued — two souls forever changed, who simply forgot to tell each other.