The surest way to fail is not to determine to succeed.

Host: The train station was nearly empty, washed in that soft pre-dawn blue that makes the world feel both alive and half-dreaming. The air smelled of coffee, cold metal, and quiet ambition. Somewhere down the platform, a newspaper rustled; an old man sipped tea and stared at nothing in particular.

Jack sat on a bench beneath the flickering sign that read 6:45 AM — Westbound. His suitcase leaned against his leg, worn leather with stickers from cities that had taught him things he didn’t always want to know. His coat collar was turned up against the chill. He looked like a man about to begin again — but unsure if he had the right map.

Across from him, Jeeny arrived, scarf wrapped tight around her neck, a notebook tucked under her arm. Her hair was still damp from the mist, and her eyes carried that unmistakable mix of tiredness and quiet fire. She saw him before he saw her.

When their eyes met, the silence between them didn’t feel empty — it felt heavy with something unspoken yet understood.

Jeeny: reading softly, as she took the seat beside him
“Richard Brinsley Sheridan once said, ‘The surest way to fail is not to determine to succeed.’”

Jack: smiling faintly, without looking at her
“Sounds simple enough. Almost too simple. But the truth always sounds that way until you have to live it.”

Jeeny: softly, glancing at the tracks
“Or until you’ve failed enough times to know he’s right.”

Host: The train horn echoed faintly in the distance, long and low — a sound that spoke of departure and resolve, the twin weights of every decision. The first light of morning slipped through the station windows, landing on the dust motes that hung in the air like small, waiting promises.

Jack: leaning forward, elbows on his knees
“I used to think success was luck — being in the right place at the right time. But now… I think it’s just stubbornness dressed up as destiny.”

Jeeny: smiling, intrigued
“Stubbornness?”

Jack: nodding, his voice steadier now
“Yeah. The kind that doesn’t quit, even when the world stops applauding. You can fail ten times — hell, a hundred — but if you determine to succeed, you turn failure into rehearsal.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly
“Sheridan would’ve liked that. He was a playwright, remember? Every performance starts with rehearsals that go wrong.”

Jack: grinning faintly
“Yeah. And audiences only see the final act. They never see the bruises behind the curtain.”

Host: The wind swept through the open terminal, carrying a burst of paper and a chill that made the light flicker briefly. Somewhere in the distance, a conductor shouted instructions, his voice echoing through the emptiness.

Jeeny: after a pause, her tone thoughtful
“You know, most people think failure happens because they weren’t good enough. But most of the time, it happens because they never decided to be.”

Jack: quietly, almost to himself
“They never determined.”

Jeeny: nodding
“Exactly. Determination isn’t a feeling — it’s a contract you sign with yourself. It’s saying, ‘I’m in this, even when it’s not romantic anymore.’”

Jack: smiling faintly, eyes distant
“Like marriage with your own purpose.”

Jeeny: grinning
“Something like that.”

Host: The train rumbled closer now, its rhythmic approach vibrating through the ground — the sound of motion, of inevitability, of decision.

Jack: after a long silence
“You ever think about how many people stop one inch before success? They work, they struggle, they suffer — and then they give up. Not because they couldn’t go further, but because they thought they’d already gone far enough.”

Jeeny: softly, watching his expression
“I think that’s why Sheridan said what he did. Failure isn’t falling short. It’s quitting before the finish line because you stopped believing you could reach it.”

Jack: quietly
“And success isn’t guaranteed. But determination — that’s something no one can take from you.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly
“It’s the one currency that never loses value.”

Host: The train screeched to a stop, doors sliding open with a sigh. A handful of commuters shuffled aboard, their faces blank, their eyes lost in thought. The conductor gave a brief nod to the waiting passengers.

But Jack and Jeeny didn’t move. They sat there, letting the noise fill the air between them.

Jack: looking up finally, eyes meeting hers
“You ever wonder how much of our lives we waste in hesitation? Just… waiting for certainty?”

Jeeny: softly
“Certainty’s just fear disguised as wisdom.”

Jack: smiling
“Then maybe determination is faith disguised as courage.”

Jeeny: grinning faintly, her tone gentle but firm
“Exactly. You don’t need to know the ending — just that you’ll keep writing it.”

Host: The doors of the train began to close, but neither of them rushed. The world outside the station was beginning to brighten now — the sky bleeding from gray into gold, the light of a new day reflected in the rails like a promise.

Jack: quietly, almost as if to himself
“I think I’m finally ready to stop waiting.”

Jeeny: standing, smiling softly
“Then you’ve already succeeded.”

Host: The camera would pull back, catching their silhouettes as they stepped onto the platform, the train’s motion blurring their reflection in the glass. The wind picked up the edge of Jeeny’s scarf; the city stirred awake around them.

And in that motion — small, human, alive — Richard Brinsley Sheridan’s words came to life:

That failure isn’t the end of effort, but the absence of decision.
That success doesn’t begin with opportunity, but with resolve.
And that the surest way to fail is not to stumble, but to never start walking.

Jeeny: as they stepped into the rising light, her voice calm, certain
“The world doesn’t reward talent, Jack. It rewards persistence.”

Jack: smiling faintly, his voice filled with quiet conviction
“Then let’s give it both.”

Host: The camera tilted upward, the morning sun spilling across the rails, the train moving westward — a streak of light across the new day.

And as the sound of its wheels faded into the horizon, one truth remained steady and shining, like gold under ash:

Determination is the soul’s way of saying —
I have not given up yet.