There is just one life for each of us: our own.

Host:
The sunset stretched long and languid across the coastline, painting the sea in strokes of bronze and rose, the kind of light that made even the waves look nostalgic. The world felt quiet — the kind of quiet that comes not from absence, but from the fullness of presence. The tide moved like breath: in, out, eternal.

At the edge of a cliff, Jack stood, his hands buried in his coat pockets, staring out where the sky met water. Behind him, Jeeny walked slowly up the path, her footsteps soft on the grass, a book in hand, its pages marked by the ocean wind.

Host:
A seagull’s cry broke the silence, sharp and distant, before vanishing into the horizon’s gold. The light caught the edges of their faces — two silhouettes caught between day and night, past and possibility.

Jeeny: reading aloud, her voice calm and clear as the wind itself — “Euripides wrote, ‘There is just one life for each of us: our own.’” She closes the book gently, looking toward him. “Simple. But maybe that’s what makes it so hard to live by.”

Jack: without turning — “Simple truths are always the hardest. We spend half our lives trying to be someone else’s idea of right, and the other half apologizing for who we really are.”

Jeeny: smiles faintly, stepping closer — “And somewhere in between, we forget we only get one try.”

Host:
The wind shifted, carrying the smell of salt and distance. A single wave crashed below, strong, deliberate, its foam glistening like memory.

Jack: sighs softly — “It’s strange, isn’t it? We talk about destiny, duty, legacy — but no one teaches us how to just be ourselves. Everyone wants to write your story for you. Religion, family, politics, love — they all hand you scripts before you’ve learned to speak.”

Jeeny: looking out at the ocean beside him — “And Euripides reminds us to tear up the script. To realize that living your own life isn’t selfish — it’s sacred.”

Jack: bitter laugh — “Sacred. That’s one word for it. I’ve spent years trying to make my life make sense to everyone else. But sometimes I wonder if the only meaning is what I give it — and if that’s enough.”

Jeeny: softly, with that quiet intensity of conviction — “It has to be. Because that’s the only real freedom we ever get. Not immortality, not perfection — just the chance to live once, as ourselves.”

Host:
The sky deepened from amber to indigo, the first stars beginning to flicker above them — fragile, persistent things that always returned, no matter how many nights they disappeared.

Jack: after a long silence — “You know, it’s terrifying when you think about it. One life. No reruns. No retakes. Every mistake — final. Every decision — permanent.”

Jeeny: turns to him, her tone gentle but unflinching — “And yet that’s what gives it value, Jack. If there were more than one, we’d waste them all. The weight of one life — that’s what makes it art.”

Jack: half-smiling — “Art? Feels more like chaos most days.”

Jeeny: smiling back — “All art starts as chaos. The brush never knows the masterpiece it’s becoming.”

Host:
The wind grew stronger, whipping her hair, carrying the sound of waves colliding with stone. The sea shimmered in the dying light — infinite, but full of endings.

Jack: his voice quieter now, almost introspective — “Sometimes I think people spend their lives waiting for permission to live. Waiting for someone to say it’s okay to choose differently, to walk away, to start over.”

Jeeny: nodding, eyes fixed on the horizon — “But the truth is, no one will ever give you that permission. You have to give it to yourself. That’s what Euripides meant — not that life is short, but that it’s yours. Entirely. Unapologetically. And no one else can live it for you.”

Host:
For a moment, neither spoke. The world around them seemed to still — even the sea’s rhythm softened, as though the universe itself were listening to its own heartbeat.

Jack: softly — “You ever feel like living for yourself is selfish?”

Jeeny: turns to face him fully, her eyes catching the last light — “No. Living only for others — that’s what’s selfish. Because when you bury your own soul to make everyone else comfortable, you rob the world of the person you were meant to become.”

Jack: nods slowly, voice faint — “So it’s not about being right, it’s about being real.”

Jeeny: smiling softly — “Exactly. You don’t owe anyone perfection. You only owe them your truth.”

Host:
The sun dipped below the water, leaving behind a thin, radiant line of fire that lingered like a promise. The air cooled, but something warm — something alive — stayed between them.

Jack: quietly — “You know, when I was younger, I thought life would come with signs — arrows pointing me toward who I was supposed to be. But it doesn’t, does it?”

Jeeny: her voice tender — “No. The signs come after. They appear in the rearview mirror — after the wrong turns, the heartbreaks, the mistakes. The only real direction is what your heart refuses to stop whispering.”

Host:
The stars brightened, scattered across the sky like fragments of memory — remnants of distant fires burning their last light into the universe.

Jack: softly, more to himself than to her — “There is just one life for each of us… our own. I suppose that’s both a gift and a warning.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly — “A gift, because it means you can live it. A warning, because no one else will.”

Host:
They stood there — the sea at their feet, the sky above them, the moment suspended in its perfect fragility. The world, vast and indifferent, suddenly felt intimate — as if life itself had leaned close to whisper: Go on, it’s yours.

Host (closing):
Euripides, in his ancient wisdom, saw what time has not changed — that we each are given but one life, and it is the canvas upon which we must paint every hope, every mistake, every act of courage.

To live it as your own is not rebellion — it is reverence.
To claim it, not in arrogance, but in authenticity, is to honor the breath that made you unique among all creation.

There is no second version of you, no other soul that will walk this earth in your rhythm or carry your light the same way.
So live — fully, fearlessly, imperfectly — because the tragedy is not in dying,
but in never truly being yourself while you lived.

And as the waves sighed below and the stars began their vigil,
Jack and Jeeny remained on the cliff’s edge,
not speaking now —
but both understanding,
in the silence between breaths,
that one life — their own —
was finally, undeniably,
beginning.