Take the high road. No matter how much strife, and consternation

Host: The rain had fallen all afternoon, turning the streets of Manhattan into long, glistening veins of light and motion. The skyline was a smear of gray and gold, the kind of evening that made even the impatient city seem like it was holding its breath. Inside a small designer’s studio on the twelfth floor, bolts of fabric draped across tables, sketches covered the walls, and the faint scent of chalk dust, coffee, and fatigue filled the air.

Jack stood by the window, his jaw clenched, his hands gripping the edge of a worktable littered with colored pencils and tangled thread. Jeeny sat on a nearby stool, her long black hair falling over one shoulder, watching him with that calm, unreadable gaze she reserved for when he was about to lose control.

The clock ticked quietly behind them. Somewhere, a taxi horn blared, long and bitter.

Jeeny: “Tim Gunn once said, ‘Take the high road. No matter how much strife, consternation, frustration, and anger you might be confronted with — don’t go to that level.’”
(she pauses, voice steady) “I think you need to hear that tonight, Jack.”

Jack: (laughs without mirth) “Oh, come on, Jeeny. I just got humiliated by a kid half my age in front of the whole design team. I’m supposed to ‘take the high road’? Please. The high road’s empty for a reason — no one’s dumb enough to walk it.”

Host: The fluorescent light above them flickered, catching the glint of sweat on Jack’s temple, the tension in his shoulders, the anger trembling beneath the surface. Jeeny crossed one leg over the other, her tone still soft but gaining weight.

Jeeny: “The high road isn’t empty, Jack. It’s just quiet. Because the people on it are too tired of noise.”

Jack: “You sound like a sermon.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But you can’t build something beautiful from bitterness.”

Host: Jack’s hands gripped the edge of the table harder, his knuckles whitening. Outside, a lightning flash briefly illuminated his reflection in the window — a man torn between pride and exhaustion.

Jack: “You don’t get it. He didn’t just question my idea — he mocked me. Laughed. Like I’m some washed-up designer who’s lost his edge.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he just doesn’t know what you’ve been through. Maybe he’s not mocking you — maybe he’s testing you.”

Jack: “Testing me? He insulted everything I’ve worked for!”

Jeeny: “And you’re about to throw it all away by lowering yourself to his level.”

Host: The room went still except for the faint buzz of the lights. Jeeny’s voice softened, but her eyes held firm — two brown embers glowing with empathy and resolve.

Jeeny: “Jack, the high road isn’t about pretending you’re not hurt. It’s about refusing to let anger write your next line.”

Jack: (bitterly) “So what — I’m just supposed to smile while he walks all over me?”

Jeeny: “No. You stand taller. You show him that class can’t be humiliated. That restraint is strength.”

Host: Jack turned, pacing across the small room, his boots echoing on the wooden floor. He looked like a man trying to outrun his own rage.

Jack: “You really think grace wins in this world? Look around. The loudest, cruelest people always get the spotlight.”

Jeeny: “For a while. But spotlights burn out fast. Dignity doesn’t.”

Jack: (stops, looks at her) “You actually believe that?”

Jeeny: “I have to. Otherwise, what’s the point of trying to be good in a world that rewards cruelty?”

Host: Jack stared at her, and for a long moment, the storm outside felt like it had moved into the room — the air charged, heavy with unsaid things.

Jack: “When I was younger, I used to fight back. Every insult, every injustice — I made sure no one ever got the last word. It felt good for about five seconds. Then it just made me... smaller.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly what Gunn meant. The high road isn’t a path you take for others — it’s the one that keeps you whole.”

Host: The thunder rolled in the distance, low and slow, as if the world itself was murmuring agreement. Jack’s eyes softened — not defeated, but tired.

Jack: “It’s hard, you know. Holding it all in. When people cross you, lie to you, twist what you said — every instinct wants to fight back. To prove them wrong.”

Jeeny: “Of course it’s hard. That’s why so few people do it. But think of it this way — you’re not taking the high road to look noble. You’re taking it because your peace of mind is worth more than your pride.”

Host: Jeeny stood now, stepping closer, her voice low, deliberate — almost like a whisper you don’t forget.

Jeeny: “You once told me design was about restraint. About knowing when to stop adding lines. Maybe this is the same thing. You stop drawing revenge when you already have a masterpiece of integrity.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “You always make morality sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because it is. Staying kind in a cruel world — that’s art.”

Host: The rain softened into a mist, tapping gently against the glass. Jack’s shoulders eased, the fire inside him dimming into something steadier, something human.

Jack: “You know, there’s a part of me that wants to prove I’m above it all. But another part that just wants to lash out — to remind them I can still fight.”

Jeeny: “You can fight. Just not with their weapons.”

Jack: “And what does that mean, exactly?”

Jeeny: “It means grace is a sword too, Jack. It just cuts cleaner.”

Host: Silence stretched between them — rich, heavy, and calm. Jack’s reflection in the window no longer looked angry. Just reflective. The city lights behind him shimmered like distant thoughts.

Jack: “You ever wonder if taking the high road makes you invisible? Like people mistake patience for weakness?”

Jeeny: “They do. But that’s their mistake to make. The high road doesn’t make you invisible — it makes you unforgettable.”

Host: Jack turned away from the window and sat down across from her, his hands finally still. The stormlight played across his face, softening its hard lines.

Jack: “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “I’ve seen it. My mother worked retail her whole life. Dealt with every kind of rudeness imaginable. But she never lost her calm. Never gave them the satisfaction. Years later, her coworkers still talk about her — not because she shouted, but because she never did.”

Jack: (quietly) “That’s power, isn’t it?”

Jeeny: “The quiet kind. The kind that doesn’t need to announce itself.”

Host: The rain stopped, leaving only the sound of the city — distant sirens, a passing car, the murmur of life continuing.

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Alright. Maybe Tim Gunn knew what he was talking about. The high road’s lonely, but maybe it’s the only one that doesn’t collapse under your own anger.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not about avoiding the mud — it’s about refusing to drown in it.”

Host: Jack reached for his sketchbook, flipping it open to a blank page. His pencil hovered above it for a moment before moving — slow, deliberate, with new steadiness. Jeeny watched him, a faint smile playing on her lips, as if seeing not a man drawing, but one healing.

The light outside the window shifted — clouds parting just enough to let a thin beam of silver moonlight spill across the floor, tracing the outline of two people who had chosen peace over pride.

Host: And in that small studio, high above a noisy city, silence became its own kind of applause. The storm had passed, and what remained was the still, fragile beauty of restraint — the kind that doesn’t shout, doesn’t win, but endures.

Because sometimes the high road isn’t a direction.
It’s a decision.