There are very few monsters who warrant the fear we have of them.

Host: The night hung heavy over the city, a slow rain tapping against the windows of an old train station café. The lights flickered like tired eyes, spilling a faint amber glow across the worn tiles. Outside, trains howled through the darkness, their sound stretching like distant sorrow. Inside, Jack sat by the window, a cigarette burning low between his fingers, his reflection fractured by streaks of rain. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her coffee, the steam curling around her like a faint halo.

The air was thick with quiet tension—the kind that comes when two souls carry too many truths they cannot share.

Jeeny: “Do you remember that quote I mentioned earlier, Jack? André Gide once said, ‘There are very few monsters who warrant the fear we have of them.’”

Jack: smirking faintly “Yeah. I remember. But maybe Gide never met the kind of people I’ve met.”

Host: The rain fell harder, like fingers drumming against the world, marking the rhythm of something unspoken.

Jeeny: “You always talk like you’ve seen the worst of humanity. But maybe that’s exactly what blinds you. Gide wasn’t saying monsters don’t exist—he meant our fear makes them bigger than they are. That our imagination feeds them until they look larger than life.”

Jack: “That’s idealistic. Fear keeps people alive, Jeeny. Fear is what stopped our ancestors from walking into a lion’s den. The idea that monsters are mostly in our heads—that’s poetic, sure. But go tell that to someone living under a dictator, or a woman who’s been hurt. Are they imagining their monster?”

Host: A train rumbled past, its lights cutting briefly through the dark, casting their faces into sharp relief—her eyes wide with conviction, his jaw clenched in doubt.

Jeeny: “No, Jack. But even in those cases, what truly destroys us isn’t always the monster itself—it’s the fear it leaves behind. Look at McCarthyism in the 1950s. People weren’t destroyed by actual spies; they were destroyed by paranoia, by accusation, by the fear that everyone was a threat. The monster wasn’t real—it was collective hysteria.”

Jack: leans forward, his tone tightening “That’s a nice history lesson, but that kind of thinking gets people killed. When you underestimate monsters, you give them space to grow. Look at Hitler, or even modern-day terrorists. The world thought they were just noise—until the noise turned into fire.”

Host: The cigarette smoke curled in the dim light, tracing the tension between them like a ghost refusing to disappear.

Jeeny: “You’re confusing awareness with fear, Jack. There’s a difference between being cautious and being consumed. Gide was talking about how fear becomes an illusion that rules us, turns neighbors into enemies, children into suspects. That’s the real monster—our imagination.”

Jack: “So you’re saying the monsters are all in our heads? That’s naïve, Jeeny. The world is full of real predators—they’re not figments of imagination. The man who holds a gun to your head isn’t born from fear, he creates it.”

Host: A pause. The rain softened, almost in pity, as if even the sky had grown tired of their argument.

Jeeny: “But think about what you just said. He creates fear—and it’s that fear that continues his power long after he’s gone. The dictator, the tyrant, the abuser—they thrive because we let their shadow stay alive inside us. We let their voices echo, even when they’ve vanished.”

Jack: his voice lower, reflective “You think the shadow is worse than the man.”

Jeeny: “I know it is. Because the man dies. The shadow doesn’t. It hides in every decision made out of fear, every relationship avoided, every truth silenced.”

Host: The café door creaked as a gust of cold wind slipped through, scattering napkins across the floor. Jeeny bent to pick one up, her hand trembling slightly. Jack watched her in silence, the smoke from his cigarette coiling like a thought he couldn’t shake.

Jack: “You make it sound like we’re the ones making our own monsters.”

Jeeny: “We are. Not always consciously, but we do. Every time we let fear dictate our choices, we become the monster’s ally. Remember after 9/11? The fear that made entire nations see certain faces as threats? That’s what Gide meant. Most monsters are born from our inability to see clearly.”

Jack: exhales slowly, the ember of his cigarette flaring briefly “You’re saying the fear of the monster becomes more dangerous than the monster itself.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because fear breeds control, and control breeds tyranny. People lose freedom, compassion, and reason all in the name of protection. It’s the same old trick through history—make them afraid, and they’ll build their own cage.”

Host: Her words lingered in the air like incense, bitter and sweet. Jack’s eyes drifted to the window, where the rain had begun to ease, leaving tiny trails of light on the glass.

Jack: “But fear isn’t always bad. It’s the most honest emotion we have. It’s the body’s truth, Jeeny. You can’t reason it away with idealism. When a soldier goes into battle, fear sharpens him. It keeps him alive.”

Jeeny: “Yes, but it also kills what’s human in him. Fear keeps him breathing, but it takes away his sleep, his peace, his trust. You see, Jack, fear doesn’t only protect—it possesses.”

Host: The light above them flickered again, casting a strange, pulsing shadow on the table between their hands. It was as if the café itself were listening, holding its breath.

Jack: “Maybe that’s just the price of survival.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s the cost of forgetting what we survive for.”

Host: Silence. A car horn echoed faintly from the street outside, then faded. The clock on the wall ticked with soft, deliberate clicks. Jeeny looked down, tracing the rim of her cup with a finger. Jack’s gaze softened, just a fraction.

Jack: “You really believe there are few true monsters, huh?”

Jeeny: “I do. I think most of them are broken souls, twisted by fear themselves. The child who’s beaten grows into the man who beats. The one who’s abandoned learns to abandon others. The cycle isn’t born out of evil, but of pain. That’s why Gide said what he said—to remind us that our fear blinds us to the humanity behind the horror.”

Jack: “So what—you’re saying even the worst deserve our understanding?”

Jeeny: “Understanding isn’t forgiveness. It’s the first step toward breaking the cycle. If we only ever respond to fear with more fear, the world never changes.”

Host: The rain had stopped now, leaving the street outside glistening under the neon signs. Jack’s eyes followed a drop of water sliding down the window, a small world reflected in its curve.

Jack: quietly “You really believe that, don’t you? That beneath every monster there’s something worth saving.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Even if it’s just the memory of who they were before they became what they are.”

Host: The wind calmed. The city exhaled. And for a moment, the two of them sat in that fragile peace, surrounded by the faint smell of coffee and rain-soaked streets. The world outside moved on, indifferent, yet somehow softer.

Jack: after a long silence “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we fear too much. Maybe that’s what turns us into what we hate.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Maybe that’s all Gide wanted us to remember—that the monster’s greatest weapon isn’t his teeth, it’s our imagination.”

Host: The camera would linger now—on Jack’s faint smile, on Jeeny’s quiet eyes, on the way the streetlight caught the steam from their cups like rising ghosts. In that moment, the world felt almost forgiven. The rain began again, gentle, like an echo of everything they had said—each drop a confession, each reflection a reminder that sometimes the monsters we fear most are merely shadows cast by our own trembling hearts.