Since we live in this world, we have to do our best for this

Host: The sun sank behind a line of rusted factories, leaving a sky streaked with orange and ash. The air trembled with the low hum of machines shutting down, the clang of metal doors, the distant cry of children playing in the alley. A single streetlight flickered alive, casting a pale halo over the cracked pavement outside a corner café. Inside, the smell of coffee and burnt sugar lingered like a memory.

Jack sat by the window, his sleeves rolled up, a half-empty cup before him, the steam rising in thin, tired curls. His eyes, cold and grey, watched the city breathe. Across from him, Jeeny held her hands around a ceramic cup, her fingers trembling slightly from the cold.

The radio murmured softly in the background — a report about rising pollution, floods, and yet another political scandal.

Jeeny looked up, her voice soft but steady.
Jeeny: “Aung San Suu Kyi once said, ‘Since we live in this world, we have to do our best for this world.’”

Host: Jack’s eyebrows twitched, the faintest sign of a smile — not of joy, but of doubt.

Jack: “Do our best for the world? That’s a noble line, Jeeny. But look around. The world doesn’t exactly reward the ones who ‘do their best.’ It chews them up, spits them out, and keeps turning.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not about rewards, Jack. Maybe it’s about duty. About human responsibility.”

Jack: “Duty? That’s what tyrants say when they want people to work themselves to death. You think this world changes because of duty? It changes because of power, money, and control — not because someone tries their best.”

Host: The wind outside picked up, rattling the old window frame. The neon light from the sign outside flickered across their faces — red, then white, then gone again.

Jeeny: “Then why are we even here, Jack? Why live, if not to make it better — even in the smallest way?”

Jack: “Because survival is the only real purpose. You feed yourself, you protect your own, you die. The rest — the ideals, the slogans — they’re illusions to make people feel less helpless.”

Host: A short silence fell. The clock ticked. The café owner wiped the counter, his movements slow, indifferent.

Jeeny: “And yet, even that survival depends on others — the farmer, the worker, the nurse. If everyone thought like you, society would crumble.”

Jack: “Society already crumbles every day. You just don’t see it. You cover it with good intentions — ‘do your best,’ ‘make a difference.’ It’s comforting, yes, but it’s not real.”

Jeeny: “Tell that to those who risked everything to make life better for others. People like Suu Kyi, Gandhi, or even ordinary citizens who clean the streets every dawn. They don’t do it for comfort. They do it because something inside them refuses to surrender to selfishness.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, his eyes sharp, the light cutting across his cheekbones.

Jack: “And where did it get them, Jeeny? Look at Suu Kyi — once a symbol of peace, later a politician under fire. The world doesn’t honor effort; it twists it. Look at the workers in sweatshops who ‘do their best’ every day. No glory, no redemption. Just endless grind.”

Jeeny: “But their existence still matters. Every act of effort — even unseen — builds the foundation of the world. Isn’t that worth something?”

Jack: “Worth something, maybe. But not enough to save anything. The planet is dying, people are divided, truth is a joke — and you’re talking about personal bests. It’s like throwing a glass of water at a forest fire.”

Jeeny: “Even a single glass means someone cared enough to try. That matters, Jack.”

Host: The rain began — soft at first, tapping against the glass, then heavier, drumming a slow, relentless rhythm. The café dimmed, shadows growing deeper. Jeeny’s voice grew quieter, yet stronger, like a flame refusing to die in the wind.

Jeeny: “You talk about futility, but you drink the coffee someone poured, sit under a roof someone built, and drive on roads people died making. Everything around us is the result of someone’s best — someone who believed this world was worth their effort.”

Jack: “You romanticize it. Most people do what they do out of necessity, not virtue.”

Jeeny: “Necessity and virtue can coexist. A mother working three jobs to feed her children — she’s not thinking about philosophy, but she’s still doing her best for the world. Because her children are the world.”

Host: Jack looked down, the steam from his cup rising like a quiet ghost. The edge in his voice softened slightly.

Jack: “You always find poetry in the cracks, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “Because that’s where light gets in.”

Host: A flicker of a smile crossed her face, small but certain. The rain streaked the window, like tears tracing glass.

Jack: “You really believe the world can be changed by kindness, by effort?”

Jeeny: “I believe it’s the only thing that ever has. You think revolutions start with weapons? No. They start with someone who refuses to give up — someone who keeps doing their best when no one else does.”

Host: Jack’s hands tightened around the cup. His eyes wandered to the street outside — a stray dog huddled beneath the awning, a young boy offering his umbrella to an old woman struggling in the rain. Small, fleeting gestures. But there they were — proof of something he couldn’t quite name.

Jack: “Maybe effort is just the illusion that keeps us sane.”

Jeeny: “Then it’s the most beautiful illusion of all.”

Host: A long pause. The sound of the rain filled the space, heavy, cleansing.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, my father used to say — ‘The world owes you nothing, Jack. You owe it everything.’ I used to hate that line. Thought it was just another trick to make me behave. But maybe he meant what you’re saying — that living itself is a kind of debt.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We can’t choose the world we’re born into, but we can choose what we give back.”

Jack: “Even if it changes nothing?”

Jeeny: “Even then. Because doing your best isn’t about outcomes — it’s about integrity. About refusing to be less than what you could be.”

Host: Jack’s face relaxed, his eyes distant, reflective. The rain softened, the rhythm turning gentle, like the world exhaling after a storm.

Jack: “So what — we just keep trying, even when everything feels hopeless?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because maybe hope isn’t something that happens to us. Maybe it’s something we create, every time we try again.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked toward closing time. The owner turned off one light, leaving the room bathed in dim amber. Jack and Jeeny sat in silence for a moment, the kind of silence that feels like understanding rather than absence.

Jack: “You’re right, Jeeny. Maybe the world doesn’t need us to win. Maybe it just needs us to care enough to keep fighting.”

Jeeny: “That’s all any of us can do — our best, for as long as we’re here.”

Host: The rain finally stopped. The streetlight flickered once more, steady now, casting a clear glow over the wet pavement. Jack stood, slipping on his coat, and looked back at Jeeny — her eyes still soft but fierce.

Jack: “Let’s hope the world notices.”

Jeeny: “It doesn’t have to. It just has to keep turning — with people like us still trying.”

Host: They stepped outside into the fresh air, the smell of rain and earth filling their lungs. The sky hung heavy with clouds, but far beyond them, faint and patient, the stars began to show.

In that quiet light, the world felt — just for a moment — worth every bit of their effort.