The man who is intent on making the most of his opportunities is

Host: The office floor lay silent beneath the pulse of fluorescent lights. The city outside stretched endlessly, its windows glittering like the pixels of ambition — every light, a dream that refused to sleep. The hum of computers and the low rumble of the late-night elevator filled the air with the sound of people who’d forgotten how to stop.

In the corner, near a wide window overlooking the skyline, Jack sat at his desk, his sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, eyes fixed on the glow of a laptop screen. The city’s reflection flickered across his grey eyes like restless light.

Across from him, sitting on the edge of another desk with a cup of coffee in her hands, Jeeny watched him — thoughtful, steady. Between them lay a single printed line, taped to the wall above the monitor — a reminder, or maybe a warning:

“The man who is intent on making the most of his opportunities is too busy to bother about luck.” — B. C. Forbes

Jeeny: (tilting her head) “You’ve read that quote a hundred times tonight, Jack. Are you trying to convince yourself it’s true or trying to fight it?”

Host: Her voice was soft, the kind that questioned without judging — an island of calm in the noise of the world’s pursuit.

Jack: (smirking faintly) “I’m just wondering if Forbes ever met a person who worked their ass off and still lost.”

Jeeny: “You think he was wrong?”

Jack: “No. Just incomplete. Effort doesn’t guarantee reward. Sometimes, you do everything right and still lose the coin toss.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe he meant that luck isn’t the point.”

Jack: “That’s easy to say when success already shook your hand.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But think about it — people who keep moving, keep working, they’re the ones who find luck. Not because it falls from the sky, but because they’re standing in the right place when it passes by.”

Jack: (leaning back) “So you think hard work creates luck?”

Jeeny: “I think it replaces it.”

Host: The faint hum of the air conditioner filled the silence. Outside, a plane moved across the dark sky, its lights blinking like purpose in motion.

Jack: “You sound like every motivational speaker I’ve ignored.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Maybe they were right, you just weren’t ready to listen.”

Jack: “No, I’ve listened. I just learned that some doors stay locked no matter how hard you knock.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the point is to stop knocking and start building new doors.”

Jack: “You really think life’s that simple?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s that honest.”

Host: The city lights shimmered across their faces — ambition’s glow reflected in fatigue and faith.

Jack: “You know what I hate about this quote?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “It makes it sound like people fail because they don’t work hard enough. As if effort alone defines destiny.”

Jeeny: “You’re right. But maybe what he meant wasn’t that luck doesn’t exist — only that it’s a distraction. If you’re busy chasing opportunity, you don’t have time to resent the odds.”

Jack: “So you ignore luck?”

Jeeny: “You outgrow it.”

Host: She set her coffee down, her eyes sharp now — not fiery, but certain.

Jeeny: “Luck is passive. Opportunity is participatory. One waits for permission; the other demands involvement.”

Jack: “That’s poetic.”

Jeeny: “It’s practical.”

Jack: “So, in your philosophy, luck’s for the idle?”

Jeeny: “Luck’s for the unready. Fortune only visits those who’ve already built the guest room.”

Host: He laughed quietly — that low, rough laugh that sounded half like agreement, half like disbelief.

Jack: “You know, you make it sound noble, but I’ve seen people burn out chasing their chances. Working harder doesn’t always mean working wiser.”

Jeeny: “No. But waiting never meant winning either.”

Jack: “You think Forbes ever rested?”

Jeeny: “Maybe rest was his form of strategy. Intent doesn’t mean obsession, Jack. It means awareness — knowing what to pursue, and when.”

Jack: “So it’s not about doing more?”

Jeeny: “It’s about doing right — with focus so fierce that luck becomes irrelevant.”

Host: A clock ticked somewhere near the corner of the room, steady and unhurried — an indifferent reminder of time’s quiet authority.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about this quote? It’s defiant. It says, ‘Stop waiting for magic. Be the cause, not the consequence.’”

Jack: “And what about the people who’ve done everything they could — and still lost?”

Jeeny: (after a pause) “Then they’ve still lived on their own terms. And that’s victory, even if it doesn’t look like one.”

Host: The lights of a skyscraper across the street flicked off floor by floor — the world beginning to rest as two souls stayed awake trying to define its meaning.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I used to pray for luck — scholarships, jobs, timing. Now I realize the only prayer that ever worked was effort.”

Jeeny: “That’s all prayer ever was — effort disguised as faith.”

Jack: “You’re dangerous when you talk like that.”

Jeeny: “No. Just hungry.”

Host: The rain began softly, tracing lines down the window, turning the city’s reflection into a mosaic of gold and glass.

Jeeny: “You know what the real tragedy is?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “That people spend half their lives waiting for the right moment. They forget that moment is just another word for choice.”

Jack: “And the people who never get a fair one?”

Jeeny: “They make one anyway.”

Host: Her tone was steady now — the sound of conviction that doesn’t rise, it roots.

Jeeny: “That’s what Forbes meant, Jack. The intent is everything. Luck is a lottery. Intention is design.”

Jack: “And you think design wins?”

Jeeny: “Every time. Because even if you fail, at least you built something with your own hands.”

Host: He closed his laptop slowly, the screen dimming until their reflections stood side by side in the glass — two silhouettes caught between ambition and meaning.

Jack: “You know, I envy your certainty.”

Jeeny: “It’s not certainty. It’s choice. I choose to believe work changes the odds.”

Jack: “And if it doesn’t?”

Jeeny: “Then at least it changes me.”

Host: The rain outside softened into mist, the city’s noise quieting until only the faint hum of fluorescent light remained.

Jeeny reached across the desk, tapping the quote taped to the wall with her finger.

Jeeny: “Maybe the point isn’t to prove Forbes right or wrong. Maybe it’s to become the kind of person too busy living to ask whether luck exists.”

Jack: “Too busy making meaning to wait for miracles.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The lights flickered once, then steadied — their glow softer now, almost kind.

And in that dim, honest stillness, B. C. Forbes’ words settled into the rhythm of reality itself:

that luck is the comfort of the idle,
but effort is the faith of the living;
that opportunity doesn’t knock —
it’s built,
with tired hands, relentless heart,
and no time left for complaint.

The rain stopped.
The city slept.
And in a quiet office overlooking all that ambition,
two souls sat in the afterglow of purpose —
not lucky,
just awake.