There is nothing that wastes the body like worry, and one who has

Host:
The night hung heavy over the city — a soft rain falling in silver threads, washing the asphalt clean and quiet. Through the misted windows of a small café tucked between shuttered storefronts, the glow of warm amber light spilled onto the street, cutting through the darkness like faith through fear.

Inside, the air was thick with coffee and conversation, though at this hour, only two people remained. Jack sat hunched at a corner table, both hands wrapped around a cup he’d barely touched. His coat was damp, his shoulders tense — the kind of tension that has nothing to do with the weather.

Across from him sat Jeeny, her elbows resting gently on the table, her expression calm but not passive. She watched him the way one watches a storm — fascinated, wary, and somehow sympathetic.

Jeeny: “You’ve been staring into that cup for twenty minutes.”

Jack: (dryly) “I’m waiting for it to answer.”

Jeeny: “And what’s the question?”

Jack: “How to stop the world from falling apart.”

(He leans back, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palms.)

Jeeny: “You sound like someone trying to fix the universe with caffeine.”

Jack: “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

(A faint smile flickers, disappears.)

Jeeny: “You know what Gandhi said? ‘There is nothing that wastes the body like worry, and one who has any faith in God should be ashamed to worry about anything whatsoever.’”

Jack: (half-laughs) “Ashamed, huh? Great. So now I can worry about worrying.”

Jeeny: “He wasn’t condemning you. He was inviting you to trust.”

Jack: “Trust what? That things will work out? That pain is holy? That God’s got a plan?”

Jeeny: “Maybe just that you’re not alone in the mess.”

(Silence. The rain outside hits harder now — rhythmic, almost meditative.)

Host:
The camera pans slowly, catching the reflections of light on wet glass, the way Jack’s fingers twitch restlessly against his cup, the way Jeeny’s calm seems to radiate a quiet strength that fills the air between them.

Jack: “You really think faith fixes worry?”

Jeeny: “Not fixes. Transforms.”

Jack: “Into what?”

Jeeny: “Surrender.”

(He looks up, skeptical, but intrigued.)

Jack: “Surrender sounds a lot like giving up.”

Jeeny: “It’s not giving up. It’s giving over — handing what you can’t control to something bigger than you.”

Jack: “And if that ‘something bigger’ doesn’t listen?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the act of handing it over is what saves you.”

(He looks at her for a long time, the noise of the rain and the hum of the café the only sounds left between them.)

Host:
The rain softens, tapping lightly now — less like a storm, more like a whisper. The café clock ticks in slow rhythm. The camera lingers on Jack’s face, shadowed but softening.

Jack: “You really don’t worry about anything?”

Jeeny: “Of course I do. But I don’t let it unpack and live in me. Worry’s like bad weather — it’s fine to notice it, just don’t build a house under it.”

Jack: “Easier said than done.”

Jeeny: “So is peace. But it’s still possible.”

(He exhales slowly, leaning forward again. There’s a quiet resignation in his movement, but also curiosity — as if her calm has begun to pull him toward stillness.)

Jack: “You think Gandhi actually lived that way? No worry at all?”

Jeeny: “No. But he understood that faith isn’t the absence of fear. It’s the refusal to let fear make your choices.”

(Her words settle like soft weight in the air. The candle between them flickers, painting the table in shades of gold and shadow.)

Host:
The camera moves closer, catching the tremor of Jack’s hands — not from cold, but from release.

Jack: “You know, sometimes I think worry is what keeps me alive. Like, if I stop caring, everything will fall apart.”

Jeeny: “That’s the lie worry tells — that your anxiety is holding the world together.”

Jack: “And it’s not?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s holding you hostage.”

(He looks away, the muscles in his jaw tightening — a man suddenly aware of his own invisible prison.)

Jack: “So what’s the alternative? Just… trust?”

Jeeny: “Trust doesn’t mean you stop working. It just means you stop panicking.”

Jack: “And that’s faith?”

Jeeny: “That’s the beginning of it.”

(He runs his thumb along the rim of his cup — the smallest gesture, but it feels like a decision forming.)

Host:
The rain stops, replaced by the gentle hum of passing cars and the low creak of the café’s old door shifting in the wind. The light on their table feels softer now, calmer, as if the night itself has exhaled.

Jack: “You ever think faith is just a trick? A way to make people feel less helpless?”

Jeeny: “No. I think it’s the opposite. It’s how people remember they’re part of something larger — that the universe doesn’t need their micromanagement.”

Jack: “But letting go feels impossible.”

Jeeny: “That’s because you still think control is safety.”

(He looks at her — the truth in her words cutting, but gentle.)

Jack: “Then what’s safety?”

Jeeny: “Knowing you’re loved. Even when you can’t control a thing.”

(For the first time all night, he smiles — small, fragile, real.)

Host:
The camera pans slowly upward, catching the candle’s flame trembling — steady but alive — and the reflections of their faces softened by its glow.

Host: Because Mahatma Gandhi was right — nothing wastes the body like worry.
It poisons the blood,
ages the heart,
turns breath into burden.

Host: And yet, beneath all that noise,
there is a quiet truth:
faith — whether in God, love, or life itself — is not denial of fear,
but defiance of it.

Host: Condemnation of worry only multiplies it.
But the choice to trust —
to breathe,
to release,
to live —
that’s where freedom begins.

Jeeny: (softly, almost to herself) “You look lighter.”

Jack: “Maybe I just ran out of things to hold on to.”

Jeeny: “Good. That means you’re finally open enough to be carried.”

(She reaches across the table, resting her hand over his. No sermon. No solution. Just stillness.)

Jack: “You really think it’s that simple?”

Jeeny: “Not simple. Sacred.”

(The candle flickers once more, then steadies. The night outside stills, as though even the rain has decided to rest.)

Host:
The camera widens, showing the empty café — two figures surrounded by warmth and quiet faith.

Host:
Because in the end, worry exhausts what love revives.
And those who learn to trust the unseen
— not blindly, but bravely —
find that peace isn’t found by holding on,
but by letting go.

(Fade to black. The faint echo of rain returns, softer now — not a storm, but a lullaby.)