The deferring of anger is the best antidote to anger.

Host: The sun was setting behind the old train station, its last light slicing through clouds of dust and steam. The air smelled of iron, diesel, and summer sweat. People moved like shadows across the platform, each carrying their own silent urgency.

Host: Jack sat on a worn bench, his jaw tight, his hands gripping a folded letter that looked like it had been read too many times. Across from him stood Jeeny, calm but visibly tense, her eyes reflecting the orange glow of the departing sun.

Host: The moment trembled, like a match waiting to catch flame.

Jeeny: “Seneca once said — ‘The deferring of anger is the best antidote to anger.’ Maybe he was right, Jack. Sometimes, all it takes to win against fury is to wait.”

Jack: (bitterly) “Wait? You think patience ever fixed anything? Tell that to someone who’s been humiliated, betrayed, stepped on. You think silence heals that?”

Jeeny: “Not silence — delay. There’s a difference. Silence swallows emotion. Delay tames it. One gives up, the other watches.”

Host: A train horn sounded in the distance, low and mournful. The wind picked up, swirling dust around Jack’s boots.

Jack: “That’s poetic, Jeeny, but you don’t know what it feels like to burn inside and have to pretend you’re calm. Sometimes anger is all that’s left of your dignity.”

Jeeny: “And sometimes, it’s the thing that destroys it.”

Host: Her words hung in the heat, steady and sharp. The light shifted — a red-gold wash that made everything look both holy and haunted.

Jack: “You always talk like a philosopher. But anger isn’t theory, Jeeny. It’s blood. You can’t defer it. You can only choke on it or unleash it.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe choking on it is the first act of mastery.”

Jack: (snapping) “Mastery? You sound like those self-help saints who never had to bury rage under a polite smile at work.”

Host: He stood up, his shadow long and fractured across the tiles. The paper in his hand trembled slightly.

Jeeny: “What happened, Jack?”

Jack: (tight voice) “He took my design — my work — and signed his name on it. My boss. And when I confronted him, he smiled and said, ‘It’s all teamwork, right?’ Everyone clapped. Everyone knew. And I couldn’t say a damn thing without sounding bitter.”

Host: His voice broke like dry wood. The station noise blurred around them — footsteps, announcements, the dull hum of a city moving too fast to notice injustice.

Jeeny: “So you wrote him that letter.”

Jack: (nodding) “Yeah. I told him exactly what I thought. Every word of it honest, sharp, clean. I was going to send it tonight.”

Jeeny: “And why didn’t you?”

Jack: (pausing) “Because of you.”

Host: The pause lingered — heavy, almost alive.

Jeeny: “Because of me?”

Jack: “You once said that truth spoken in fury is just noise. I didn’t want my truth to sound like that. But damn it, Jeeny… waiting feels like betrayal. Like I’m letting him win.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Waiting isn’t surrender — it’s choosing your battleground. Seneca said it for a reason: time reveals what anger distorts.”

Host: She sat beside him, close but not touching. The last train of the day roared past, its light flashing across their faces, illuminating the storm beneath his calm.

Jeeny: “You know, the Romans had a word — ira. They called anger a kind of temporary insanity. They believed deferring it wasn’t weakness, but a way to protect reason. To stay whole.”

Jack: “Tell that to the oppressed, Jeeny. To those whose anger built history. Without rage, no revolutions would’ve happened. No truth would’ve ever been shouted.”

Jeeny: “You’re right. But even revolutions had timing. Anger lit the fuse — but wisdom chose when to light it.”

Host: Her voice was calm, but her eyes burned. The contrast was almost unbearable — fire dressed in composure.

Jack: “So what, I just wait until the storm passes? Pretend it doesn’t hurt?”

Jeeny: “No. Feel it. Completely. But don’t act from it. That’s the difference. Acting in anger is like driving drunk — you might move fast, but you’re bound to crash.”

Host: Jack laughed — a short, broken sound that wasn’t amusement but surrender.

Jack: “You make it sound so simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not simple. It’s survival. My father used to say anger gave him strength. But it gave him ulcers too. He died younger than he should have — proud, unbent, and poisoned by his own righteousness.”

Jack: (softly) “You think I’ll become him?”

Jeeny: “No. I think you already carry the same fire. But you can learn what he didn’t — how to hold it without letting it burn you.”

Host: The wind shifted again, carrying the faint scent of metal and rain. A child’s laughter echoed faintly in the distance — fragile, bright, innocent.

Jack: “You know, I almost sent that letter last night. I imagined his face when he read it. The shock, the guilt, the loss of control. It felt… righteous.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I just feel tired.”

Jeeny: “That’s good. Fatigue cools the fever of anger. When it’s gone, what remains is clarity — and that’s when truth finally speaks, not screams.”

Host: Jack sat back down. The letter slipped from his hand, landing softly beside his shoe. He didn’t pick it up.

Jack: “Maybe Seneca knew that we confuse reaction for strength. That deferring anger isn’t cowardice, it’s choosing not to become the thing we hate.”

Jeeny: (nodding) “Exactly. The best revenge, Jack, isn’t rage — it’s peace. Because peace means they didn’t take your soul with their act.”

Host: A moment of stillness stretched between them. The sun had vanished, leaving behind a deep crimson sky that bled into the horizon. The city lights flickered to life, indifferent and eternal.

Jack: “You know, I’m still angry.”

Jeeny: “Good. It means you care. Just don’t let it own you.”

Host: He smiled faintly, the first true expression of relief that night. The tension in his shoulders loosened, his hands unclenched.

Jack: “You know something, Jeeny? Maybe anger’s not meant to be killed — just guided. Like fire.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Fire gives warmth — until you forget to tend it.”

Host: The train station had emptied. Only a few stragglers remained — silhouettes against the fading light. The air cooled, carrying with it the faint sound of a distant bell.

Jack: “I won’t send the letter.”

Jeeny: “Not yet.”

Jack: “Maybe never.”

Jeeny: “That’s up to time to decide. But for tonight, you’ve already won.”

Host: The camera would linger now — on the letter resting beside Jack’s foot, the ink glimmering faintly in the dying light, like words still burning inside him but refusing to ignite.

Host: Beyond the platform, the last train disappeared into the horizon, its sound dissolving into the coming darkness.

Host: And there, in the calm aftermath of almost-anger, the world seemed briefly, mercifully, still — proof that even fire can learn to breathe.