There are two kinds of people in crisis situations - those who

Host: The bar lights flickered against the rain-streaked windows, smearing the night into an abstract painting of color and reflection. Outside, the city pulsed — horns blaring, tires hissing over puddles — but inside, the air was still, thick with the low hum of a jazz tune playing on a beaten record player in the corner.

A half-empty bottle of whiskey sat between Jack and Jeeny. The ashtray held two dying cigarettes, their smoke curling like memories that refused to leave. A single candle flickered on the table, trembling as if it, too, had stage fright.

Jack leaned back in his chair, sleeves rolled up, his grey eyes reflective but guarded. Jeeny sat across from him, her chin resting on her palm, her hair loose, her gaze soft yet sharp — the kind that saw through armor.

Jeeny: (grinning) “Cobie Smulders once said, ‘There are two kinds of people in crisis situations — those who fight and those who freeze. I’m a freezer, and that’s just going by the couple of surprise birthday parties I’ve had thrown for me.’”

Jack: (smirking) “Honest. I like that. Most people pretend they’d turn into heroes in a crisis.”

Jeeny: “Yeah. It’s refreshing to hear someone admit they freeze — even if it’s about birthday parties.”

Jack: “Freezing’s honest. Instinct doesn’t ask for your resume before it decides.”

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve frozen before.”

Jack: (pauses) “I have. Everyone has. We just hide it behind stories about how brave we were afterward.”

Host: The rain outside softened, the rhythm tapping gently against the glass like a quiet percussion. The candle flame danced, throwing fleeting shadows across their faces — one calm, one contemplative.

Jeeny: “You think people are born one way or the other — fighters or freezers?”

Jack: “I think we’re both. Sometimes you freeze because your body knows the world’s too big to fix in that second. Sometimes you fight because you can’t stand the silence.”

Jeeny: “So the difference isn’t courage, it’s timing.”

Jack: “Exactly. Fight too soon, you burn out. Freeze too long, you disappear.”

Jeeny: “And yet, people worship fighters. Movies, history, politics — we only remember the ones who moved.”

Jack: “Because stillness scares us. Nobody wants to admit that survival sometimes looks like standing perfectly still while everything breaks around you.”

Host: The record crackled, and the jazz faded into a softer tune — something melancholic, like the echo of a confession. Jeeny took a sip of whiskey, her eyes reflecting the candle’s faint shimmer.

Jeeny: “You ever been in a real crisis?”

Jack: (after a pause) “Once. Car crash. Nothing fatal — but enough. I remember the sound before I remember anything else. Metal folding, glass shattering… and me, frozen. Just watching it happen like a movie I couldn’t pause.”

Jeeny: “And afterward?”

Jack: “Afterward, I pretended I was fine. Told everyone I stayed calm, took control. Truth is, I didn’t move until someone else did. I hated myself for it.”

Jeeny: “Why? You survived.”

Jack: “Because survival isn’t the same as living up to who you thought you’d be.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “You expected to be the hero.”

Jack: (nods) “And I wasn’t.”

Host: The rain intensified, drumming against the glass like restless fingers. The light flickered, catching the faint ache in his expression.

Jeeny: “You know what’s strange? Freezing’s a kind of intelligence. The body goes still because it knows movement could make things worse.”

Jack: “That’s one way to dress up panic.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s instinct. The oldest kind of wisdom — silence before storm. The deer doesn’t run because it’s stupid. It waits. It listens.”

Jack: “But humans hate waiting. We want action, closure, control.”

Jeeny: “That’s why we keep breaking things that could’ve been healed with patience.”

Host: A moment of silence settled between them, heavy but not empty. Jack’s hand traced the rim of his glass, while Jeeny leaned back, eyes drifting toward the window where the rain blurred the neon world outside.

Jack: “So you’d call freezing an art form?”

Jeeny: “In a way. Stillness takes strength. It’s harder than throwing punches. It’s choosing not to let fear make you move before you’re ready.”

Jack: “But what if the world demands action? What if freezing gets you killed?”

Jeeny: “Then you go down gracefully. But you go down as yourself — not as someone flailing just to prove they’re brave.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “You make freezing sound like philosophy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Fight and freeze — two sides of the same soul. One speaks in fire, the other in ice. Both are trying to protect something.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked, slow and steady. Outside, the storm began to ease, leaving the streets slick and gleaming under the soft glow of the city’s nightlights.

Jack: “You know what I think? People freeze in more ways than one. Not just in danger — in life. They freeze before decisions, before love, before change.”

Jeeny: “Because those are the real crises — the quiet ones. The kind no one sees coming, like birthdays, or heartbreaks.”

Jack: “Birthdays?” (laughs)

Jeeny: “That’s what Smulders was saying. Even joy can shock you. You think crisis only comes wrapped in tragedy. Sometimes it wears a smile.”

Jack: “You ever frozen from happiness?”

Jeeny: “Once. Someone told me they loved me, and I just… stopped breathing. Not because I didn’t feel it, but because I did.”

Jack: (softly) “That’s the worst kind of stillness — when your heart moves faster than your mouth can.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The candle burned lower, its wax dripping slowly down the glass. The room dimmed, growing intimate — like the world had shrunk down to their two voices and the quiet thrum of existence beyond the glass.

Jack: “You know, maybe we’re not meant to be one or the other. Maybe every human being is a battlefield between fight and freeze — chaos and caution. The real question is which part you listen to when the moment comes.”

Jeeny: “And which part forgives you after.”

Jack: (smiles) “Forgiveness — the missing category.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the eighth cause Aristotle forgot.”

Jack: “He’d hate that.”

Jeeny: “He’d analyze it to death.”

Host: They both laughed softly, the sound carrying just enough warmth to soften the cool air between them. The rain had stopped completely, leaving behind the smell of wet pavement and clean beginnings.

Jack: “You know, I think freezing’s underrated. The world rewards movement, but sometimes, the truest courage is staying still long enough to feel afraid.”

Jeeny: “To let the fear pass through you instead of pushing it away.”

Jack: “Yeah.” (pause) “Maybe being a freezer doesn’t mean you’re weak. Maybe it means you’re human.”

Jeeny: “That’s the point, Jack. We’re not built for constant motion. Even the heart pauses between beats.”

Host: A smile flickered on Jack’s lips, small but real. He raised his glass slightly toward Jeeny — not a toast, but an acknowledgment.

The record ended, its last note hanging in the air like a question finally answered.

Jeeny: “So, next time life surprises you — freeze?”

Jack: “No. Feel. Then move.”

Jeeny: “You think you’ll remember that?”

Jack: “Ask me at my next surprise party.”

Jeeny: (laughs) “I’ll bring the cake and the crisis.”

Host: The camera would linger — two figures in a pool of candlelight, their laughter low and familiar, the city outside returning to its rhythm.

As the scene faded, Cobie Smulders’ words echoed softly —
part humor, part confession, entirely human:

That in every crisis, there are those who fight,
and those who freeze —

and perhaps both are acts of survival,
each one a kind of grace.

For sometimes, the bravest thing we can do
is not to rush into battle,
but to stand still,
to let the moment wash over us,
and in the stillness,
find the courage
to breathe again.