Suspicion is far more to be wrong than right; more often unjust

Host: The night leaned heavy over the city, its vast black canopy torn open by streaks of lightning far in the distance. The rain had stopped, but the air still shimmered with electricity — that uneasy quiet after a storm when the world holds its breath. Inside a dim train station café, the scent of wet stone, coffee, and faint loneliness mingled like ghosts that had forgotten their own stories.

Jack sat near the window, his coat still damp, his jaw tight. His hands tapped restlessly against the tabletop — a rhythm of impatience, a habit learned from years of mistrust. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her coffee slowly, watching him with those steady, brown eyes that never flinched, even when he did.

Between them lay a folded scrap of paper, its edges soft from handling, the ink smudged as though it had survived weather — or doubt. Jeeny had just read it aloud moments before:

“Suspicion is far more to be wrong than right; more often unjust than just.
It is no friend to virtue, and always an enemy to happiness.”
— Hosea Ballou

Host: The quote hung between them like smoke — thin, persistent, suffocating in its truth.

Jack: (dryly) “Suspicion is an enemy to happiness.” Yeah, maybe. But it’s a damn good bodyguard.

Jeeny: (softly) A bodyguard that locks you inside the prison it’s supposed to protect you from.

Jack: (leans forward, half-smirking) You think I’m paranoid.

Jeeny: I think you’re tired, Jack. Paranoia’s what happens when you’ve been hurt too long and call it wisdom.

Host: The light from the streetlamps outside trembled through the rain-streaked glass, reflecting in Jack’s eyes like cold fire. He looked older tonight — not in years, but in spirit. A man who’d built his armor so carefully, he’d forgotten how to take it off.

Jack: (grimly) You talk about suspicion like it’s a choice. It’s not. You don’t wake up one morning and decide to stop trusting people. You learn.

Jeeny: (gently) You also learn to breathe again after choking. But only if you stop clutching your own throat.

Host: A pause stretched out — not empty, but weighted. Jack looked down at his cup, the dark liquid swirling like an ocean he couldn’t cross.

Jack: (quietly) I’ve seen too much betrayal, Jeeny. Friends who smiled until they needed something sharper than loyalty. Lovers who turned love into leverage. Suspicion isn’t my enemy — it’s what keeps me standing.

Jeeny: (leans forward, voice soft but fierce) No, Jack. It’s what keeps you from ever standing next to anyone else.

Jack: (bitterly) And what’s the alternative? Blind trust? Walking into the same knife twice?

Jeeny: (firmly) No. The alternative is faith — not in people, but in yourself. In knowing that even if someone betrays you, you’ll survive it.

Host: The train outside wailed softly, its whistle stretching into the night like the cry of something ancient and weary. The sound filled the café, vibrating in the windows, shaking the silence loose for a moment.

Jack: (murmurs) Faith. You talk about it like it’s easy.

Jeeny: (quietly) It’s not easy. It’s necessary. Without it, you don’t build relationships — you build investigations.

Jack: (half-smile) Maybe some people are worth investigating.

Jeeny: (softly, almost sadly) Then you’ll spend your life gathering evidence instead of love.

Host: The clock on the café wall ticked on, marking seconds like drops of water falling into an endless well. Jeeny’s face was calm, but her hands trembled slightly — not from fear, but empathy, as if she could feel the weight of his disbelief pressing against her chest.

Jack: (low) You ever been betrayed, Jeeny? Really betrayed?

Jeeny: (nodding) Yes.

Jack: (pauses) And you still believe in trust?

Jeeny: (softly) Especially because I’ve been betrayed. Trust isn’t about others proving themselves worthy — it’s about me refusing to let pain define my vision.

Host: The rain began again, a slow patter on the glass — quiet, almost forgiving. Jack looked out at the blurred city lights, their reflections running down like tears that didn’t belong to anyone in particular.

Jack: (gritting his teeth) You think suspicion makes me unjust.

Jeeny: (gently) No. I think it makes you afraid to be wrong.

Jack: (bitterly) Being wrong costs.

Jeeny: (nods) So does never being open. Suspicion protects you from pain — but it also robs you of joy before anyone else can.

Host: The light above them flickered, and for a moment, Jack’s face softened — a shadow of exhaustion crossing over defiance.

Jack: (after a long silence) You really believe happiness can survive trust?

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) Happiness is born from it. Not the naïve kind — the kind that knows everything could fall apart and still dares to hope.

Jack: (quietly) Hope’s fragile.

Jeeny: (softly) So is glass. But when it catches light, it turns the whole room golden.

Host: The words slipped between them like warmth spreading through cold hands. Jack looked down, then exhaled — a long, tired breath that sounded like surrender wrapped in disbelief.

Jack: (softly) You make it sound like happiness is a risk.

Jeeny: (nods) It always is. That’s why it’s so rare.

Jack: (leans back) And suspicion?

Jeeny: (quietly) It’s the illusion of safety that guarantees loneliness.

Host: Outside, the train began to move again — a slow, rhythmic motion that seemed to echo their conversation, the rhythm of departure and arrival, of leaving old beliefs behind.

Jack: (after a pause) Maybe Ballou was right, then. Suspicion isn’t a friend to virtue. You can’t be good while expecting the worst from everyone.

Jeeny: (softly) No. Virtue needs openness. It breathes in trust the way lungs breathe in air.

Jack: (smiles faintly) And suspicion suffocates.

Jeeny: (nods) It does — quietly, gently, so you don’t even notice until you stop feeling alive.

Host: Jack looked at her — really looked — and in her eyes, he saw no accusation, no judgment. Only stillness. It unnerved him, that kind of calm; it felt like sunlight hitting a man who had lived too long underground.

Jack: (softly) Maybe I’ve been dead longer than I realized.

Jeeny: (reaches across the table) Then maybe tonight’s your resurrection.

Host: The clock ticked again. Somewhere beyond the glass, the storm had passed. The sky began to clear, revealing the faint shimmer of a moon breaking through the clouds — pale, uncertain, but there.

Jack: (after a while) You think happiness forgives suspicion?

Jeeny: (smiling) No. It outgrows it.

Jack: (quietly) How?

Jeeny: By realizing that not everyone’s here to hurt you — and even if someone is, it’s not the end of you. It’s just another page.

Host: He leaned back, his eyes tracing the faint reflection of the moonlight now falling across the table. The tension in his jaw eased, and a small, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips — not from joy, but from release.

Jack: (softly) Maybe happiness isn’t trust. Maybe it’s forgiveness — even of our own fear.

Jeeny: (smiles gently) Then you’ve just named peace.

Host: The lights in the café flickered once more and steadied, glowing warm and soft. The rain outside slowed to a mist, and the city, reborn from the storm, began to hum again — life moving forward, quietly, defiantly.

Host: Jack lifted his coffee cup — no longer for warmth, but for grounding — and looked across the table at Jeeny. Something unspoken passed between them, fragile but real, like the first light after a long, blind night.

Host: And in that small, fragile stillness, the truth of Ballou’s words came alive — that suspicion, for all its armor, could never build happiness. That only trust — flawed, trembling, human trust — could.

Host: The moonlight spilled wider through the window, silvering the world, and for the first time in years, Jack didn’t feel the need to question it. He simply let it shine.