There is no fulfillment in things whatsoever. And I think one of

Host: The night lay heavy over the city, its lights flickering like faint stars caught in fog and exhaust. A penthouse window framed the skyline — glass and steel stretching into the black. Inside, the room was sterile, elegant, and lifeless: marble floors, designer furniture, a silent grand piano untouched in the corner.

Jack stood before the window, holding a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid glowing like a dying flame. Across from him, Jeeny sat on a white sofa, her legs folded beneath her, a small sketchbook open on her knees. Her eyes followed him — not with judgment, but with a kind of quiet grief.

On the muted television, an interview replayed. The calm, steady voice of Ben Carson cut through the hush:
“There is no fulfillment in things whatsoever. And I think one of the reasons that depression reigns supreme amongst the rich and famous is some of them thought that maybe those things would bring them happiness. But what, in fact, does is having a cause, having a passion. And that's really what gives life's true meaning.”

The words hung in the air like incense — slow, invisible, and inescapable.

Jeeny: “That’s the truth, isn’t it? We keep filling our rooms with things and wonder why they echo so loudly.”

Jack: “Easy to say when you’ve already got everything you need.”

Jeeny: “You think he’s wrong?”

Jack: “I think it’s convenient philosophy for people who already made it. You tell the poor man that money doesn’t buy happiness — he’ll laugh in your face. Try paying rent with ‘passion.’ Try eating a cause.”

Host: The city lights shimmered across the glass, painting Jack’s reflection — tall, sharp, and weary. The whiskey trembled slightly in his hand as he turned toward her, his grey eyes glinting like steel under moonlight.

Jeeny: “That’s not what he meant. He didn’t say survival. He said fulfillment. You can survive with money. But fulfillment — that’s different. That’s what makes the surviving worth it.”

Jack: “Fulfillment doesn’t keep the lights on, Jeeny. You think people choose depression? You think the rich are victims because their yachts didn’t hug them back?”

Jeeny: “I think everyone’s starving for meaning. Some for bread, others for purpose. Hunger wears different clothes.”

Jack: “And yet it’s always the ones in silk complaining about emptiness.”

Jeeny: “Because they’ve run out of distractions. They’ve climbed every mountain only to realize it was made of mirrors.”

Host: The wind brushed against the windows, faint but unyielding. Somewhere below, the city hummed — sirens, laughter, the pulse of millions moving without pause. But in the penthouse, the silence deepened.

Jack: “You think having a cause fixes that? You think meaning’s something you just pick up like a new hobby?”

Jeeny: “No. Meaning isn’t found. It’s built. You build it the same way you build muscle — by resistance, by repetition, by pain. The rich get depressed because they stop lifting anything that matters.”

Jack: “That’s poetic, but naive. You think a cause can save a person from themselves? Look at history — how many leaders, artists, visionaries burned out chasing meaning? Sylvia Plath had passion. So did Van Gogh. Passion didn’t save them.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But it gave their suffering shape. It turned pain into creation. Would you rather feel nothing?”

Jack: “Sometimes, yes.”

Host: The words hung there like a shard of glass between them. Jeeny’s eyes softened, her breath unsteady. The city’s glow painted both their faces in fractured light — hers warm, his shadowed.

Jeeny: “You’re not empty, Jack. You’re exhausted. You’ve spent years chasing success — not purpose. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “I chased survival. Don’t call it ambition when it’s necessity.”

Jeeny: “You had enough long ago. You just didn’t stop running.”

Jack: “Because stopping feels like drowning. If I stop, I start thinking.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time you think.”

Jack: “And face what? That everything I’ve built — the job, the car, the view — means nothing?”

Jeeny: “Not nothing. Just… not everything.”

Host: The rain began to fall, soft against the glass — slow, rhythmic, cleansing. The city lights refracted through it, turning the window into a mosaic of color and memory.

Jeeny closed her sketchbook and set it aside. She stood, walking toward him.

Jeeny: “Do you remember when we first met? You said you wanted to make enough money to never worry again.”

Jack: “Yeah. And I did.”

Jeeny: “Then why do you still look like you’re starving?”

Jack: “Because peace doesn’t pay in cash.”

Jeeny: “No. But it pays in meaning.”

Jack: “And where do you find that, Jeeny? In painting? In volunteering? In believing you can fix the world?”

Jeeny: “In belonging to something bigger than yourself. In giving your strength to something that outlasts you.”

Jack: “Sounds like religion.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. It’s humanity.”

Host: The rain deepened, rolling down the glass like veins of silver. Jack turned back to the window, his reflection layered over the glittering skyline — man and city, both full and empty at once.

Jack: “You ever think the reason people chase things is because they’re easier to hold than people? You can’t lose a house to betrayal. You can’t disappoint a watch. Things stay quiet. People don’t.”

Jeeny: “That’s true. But things don’t love you back, Jack. They don’t listen. They don’t care if you wake up tomorrow.”

Jack: “Maybe I don’t care either.”

Jeeny: “Liar.”

Host: He froze. Jeeny’s voice had changed — softer, but cutting straight through him. She stepped closer, her reflection merging with his on the glass.

Jeeny: “You care too much. That’s why you’re like this. You thought success would protect you from feeling. But it just isolated you. You built a kingdom — and locked yourself in it.”

Jack: “You think passion fixes that?”

Jeeny: “No. But it gives you a reason to open the gate.”

Host: The room glowed faintly under the streetlights, the rain washing the city clean. Jeeny placed her hand against the glass — her palm a soft echo of human warmth in a world of surfaces.

Jeeny: “Ben Carson’s right, you know. Depression doesn’t start in the poor or the rich. It starts in the meaningless. People who forget why they exist.”

Jack: “And what do you think your cause is?”

Jeeny: “People. Connection. Creating something that reminds others they’re not alone. Maybe that’s small, but it keeps me breathing.”

Jack: “And if it fails?”

Jeeny: “Then at least it was mine.”

Host: Jack turned, setting down his glass. His eyes lingered on Jeeny — on the fire behind her calm, on the strange peace that lived in her restlessness.

Jack: “You make it sound so simple. Like meaning’s a choice.”

Jeeny: “It is. Not an easy one, but a choice. You can live for accumulation, or for contribution. One fills your hands. The other fills your heart.”

Jack: “And what if the heart’s already cracked?”

Jeeny: “Then pour through the cracks. That’s where the light comes in.”

Host: Jack laughed then — quietly, almost painfully. It wasn’t joy, but release. He walked to the piano, ran a hand along its polished surface, then pressed a key. A low, trembling note filled the room.

Jack: “Haven’t touched this thing in years.”

Jeeny: “Then play. Don’t think about it. Just… play.”

Host: His fingers moved uncertainly at first, then steadier. The notes filled the penthouse, raw and unrefined, echoing against marble and glass. Jeeny closed her eyes, letting the sound wash through her.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ve been mistaking achievement for purpose.”

Jeeny: “You were never chasing money, Jack. You were chasing proof.”

Jack: “Proof of what?”

Jeeny: “That you mattered. That your life made noise in the world.”

Jack: “And now?”

Jeeny: “Now you’ve made enough noise. Maybe it’s time to make music.”

Host: The rain eased to a whisper. Outside, the city breathed, cleansed. Inside, two souls sat in quiet understanding — no longer arguing, just existing in fragile harmony.

Jack’s final note hung in the air, trembling, beautiful, unfinished.

Jeeny smiled — not triumphantly, but with the gentle grace of someone who had finally been heard.

Jeeny: “That’s fulfillment, Jack. Not perfection. Just presence.”

Host: Jack looked at her, the tired lines of his face softening.

Jack: “And you think that’s enough?”

Jeeny: “It’s everything.”

Host: The camera would pull back now — the two figures small against the glass, the piano’s last note fading into the hum of the city. The penthouse — once cold and distant — now glowed faintly with warmth, like a lantern rediscovering its flame.

Outside, the rain stopped. The moonlight broke through.

And in that fragile silence, meaning — not wealth, not glory — finally breathed.