Remember you will not always win. Some days, the most resourceful

Host: The sun had just begun to sink behind the hills, spilling its last light across a half-empty construction site on the edge of the city. The air was heavy with dust and the smell of metal, that strange perfume of effort and failure mixed together.

A torn banner flapped weakly on a rusted fence, reading “Future Community Center – Opening 2024.” It was 2025 now, and the place still stood half-built — a skeleton of hope that had yet to find its flesh.

Jack sat on a concrete beam, a cigarette burning low between his fingers, his jacket streaked with grime. Jeeny stood a few feet away, watching the sky turn to molten orange, her hair caught by the wind, her eyes holding that quiet kind of sadness that only comes from watching good intentions collapse.

Jeeny: “You worked on this site for six months, didn’t you?”

Jack: Nods slowly. “Nine. We were supposed to open by spring. Then the funding disappeared. City pulled out. Investors ghosted. It’s funny — we laid every brick thinking about the kids who’d play basketball here, the old folks who’d sit in the sun. Now it’s just steel and regret.”

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve given up.”

Jack: “No. I just… stopped pretending that trying guarantees results.”

Host: A gust of wind passed through the beams, making a low whistle, like the structure itself was sighing. The sunlight struck the exposed metal, scattering gold into the dust, brief and fleeting — beauty clinging to ruin.

Jeeny: “You remind me of a quote by Maxwell Maltz — ‘Remember you will not always win. Some days, the most resourceful individual will taste defeat. But there is, in this case, always tomorrow — after you have done your best to achieve success today.’”

Jack: He gave a dry laugh. “Tomorrow. That’s what losers say to comfort themselves.”

Jeeny: “No, that’s what survivors say to start again.”

Jack: “Maybe. But I’m tired of starting again, Jeeny. You put everything into something — your time, your strength, your belief — and then you watch it fall apart. Tell me, how many tomorrows does it take before you just stop?”

Jeeny: “As many as it takes until one of them finally works.”

Host: The light faded another degree, the sky now streaked with bruised purple and red. Far away, the city’s hum began to rise, a symphony of engines, horns, and human persistence.

Jack: “You talk like hope is infinite.”

Jeeny: “It is, if you feed it.”

Jack: “And what happens when you’ve got nothing left to feed it with?”

Jeeny: “Then you borrow from faith.”

Jack: He looked at her, half-smiling, half-broken. “You always have an answer, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “Only because I’ve lived the question.”

Host: She turned, her eyes scanning the half-built walls, the cranes standing still like monuments to exhaustion. For a moment, she looked small — framed by a skyline of unfinished dreams.

Jeeny: “Do you remember the first time you failed at something, Jack?”

Jack: “High school. Debate team. I thought I was clever — had all the facts, all the logic. Then I froze on stage. Forgot my argument. Everyone laughed. I wanted to disappear.”

Jeeny: “And you didn’t.”

Jack: “No. But that wasn’t courage. That was humiliation. The difference is, humiliation teaches you you’re not invincible.”

Jeeny: “And that’s the first lesson of growth.”

Host: A truck rumbled in the distance, its headlights cutting briefly across the dirt lot, then fading. The shadows lengthened, draping over the beams like dark cloth.

Jack: “You think Maltz really believed that ‘tomorrow’ thing, or was he just trying to sell optimism?”

Jeeny: “He was a plastic surgeon, Jack. He saw people’s self-image destroyed and rebuilt every day. If anyone understood the anatomy of defeat, it was him.”

Jack: “So he knew how to cover scars.”

Jeeny: “No. He knew how to see beauty underneath them.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice had that steady, burning tone — the one Jack could never argue with for long. Still, he tried.

Jack: “It’s easy to romanticize failure when you’re standing in the ashes with a good quote. But the truth is, some people don’t recover. Some dreams die and take the dreamer with them.”

Jeeny: “Then those who survive owe it to them to keep dreaming.”

Jack: “That sounds noble. It also sounds exhausting.”

Jeeny: “It is. But so is living without purpose.”

Host: The sky was nearly black now. The lights from the bridge flickered on, one by one, like slow, deliberate stars. A single plastic bag drifted by, caught in the wind — aimless, but still moving.

Jack: “You ever lose something you couldn’t rebuild?”

Jeeny: Quietly. “My brother. Car accident. He was seventeen. We were supposed to go to college together. That was the first time I learned what defeat really felt like. The kind that doesn’t end when the day does.”

Jack: He looked down, the edge in his tone softening to silence. “I didn’t know.”

Jeeny: “Most people don’t. But I remember the morning after his funeral — I walked outside, and the world had the nerve to still exist. Birds were singing. A neighbor was watering her plants. I hated them for it. But then I realized — that’s tomorrow. It’s cruel, it’s indifferent, but it’s still there. And it gives you another chance, whether you want it or not.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the faint scent of rain from somewhere far off. Jack looked at her — really looked this time — as if seeing the invisible weight she carried and how she’d learned to move with it instead of against it.

Jack: “You think this place — this broken site — still has a chance?”

Jeeny: “Of course it does. Everything does, if someone keeps believing in it.”

Jack: “Then maybe you should run for mayor.”

Jeeny: Smiling faintly. “No, thank you. I prefer fighting one cynic at a time.”

Jack: Laughs quietly. “You’re doing a pretty good job so far.”

Jeeny: “Then take this as progress. You’re laughing again.”

Host: A long silence followed — not uncomfortable, but heavy with meaning. The sky had gone full night now, the stars faint above the haze. Jack stood, brushed the dust from his pants, and looked at the skeleton of the community center one last time.

Jack: “You know, maybe this isn’t a failure. Maybe it’s just… unfinished work.”

Jeeny: “Everything worth doing always is.”

Jack: “And tomorrow?”

Jeeny: “Tomorrow’s just another word for ‘keep going.’”

Host: The wind softened. The city lights flickered like distant promises. Jack took a slow breath, his shoulders loosening, his eyes warmer now — not from optimism, but from acceptance.

He turned to Jeeny. “Let’s come back tomorrow. We’ll bring paint, patch what we can.”

Jeeny: “I’ll bring coffee. And maybe hope.”

Jack: “Bring two cups of that, will you?”

Host: They walked away from the site, their footsteps echoing against the hollow steel, two silhouettes fading into the night. Behind them, the half-built center stood — silent, waiting, but no longer abandoned.

The wind stirred again, rustling through the beams, almost whispering —

There is always tomorrow, after you’ve done your best today.