There's no right or wrong, success or failure.

Host: The night was humid, restless, full of the scent of rain and unfinished stories. In a small recording studio tucked behind a graffiti-covered alley, the fluorescent lights buzzed, and the city hum seeped in through cracked windows. A single guitar leaned against the wall, its strings catching faint vibrations from a passing train.

Jack sat slouched on a leather couch, his grey eyes focused on nothing in particular, a half-empty glass of whiskey in his hand. Across from him, Jeeny sat cross-legged on the floor, her hair falling in dark waves over her shoulders, her notebook open, ink stains smudged across her fingers.

The air between them was thick with tension, the kind that only comes from two people standing on opposite edges of the same truth.

Jack: “You really believe that, Jeeny? That there’s no right or wrong, no success or failure?”

Jeeny: “I don’t just believe it, Jack. I’ve felt it. Life isn’t a scoreboard. It’s a song — sometimes you’re off-key, sometimes you soar, but it’s all still part of the music.”

Host: The rain began to fall, softly at first, tapping against the window, blurring the neon signs outside. The studio lights flickered, as if even they were listening.

Jack: “That’s poetic, sure. But it’s naïve. Right and wrong exist — they keep the world from burning. Success and failure? They’re what drive us to improve. Without them, you’ve got nothing but chaos.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe without them, you finally have freedom.”

Host: Her voice was calm, but her eyes were fierce, the kind that saw not the world as it was, but as it could be.

Jack: “Freedom? No, that’s drift. That’s people doing whatever they want, with no consequence. You think Hitler thought he was wrong? You think failure didn’t matter to those who tried to stop him?”

Jeeny: “You’re talking about morality, not judgment. Of course there are ethical choices, Jack. But right and wrong as we see them — they’re just labels. Societies create them, reshape them. In some cultures, what’s wrong here was right there. It’s not universal, it’s contextual.”

Jack: “That’s moral relativism. Dangerous ground, Jeeny. If everything’s relative, nothing’s real.”

Jeeny: “But that’s just it — reality isn’t black and white. It’s gray, full of nuance. You can fail and still be whole, you can succeed and still feel empty. Miley said it right — maybe the point isn’t to be right, it’s just to be.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, the light from a flickering neon sign cutting across his face, half in shadow, half in fire. He stood, paced, his boots thudding softly against the wood floor.

Jack: “You sound like one of those motivational posters. ‘It’s the journey, not the destination.’ But tell that to someone who fails their family, who loses everything. Tell them there’s no failure.”

Jeeny: “They haven’t failed, Jack — they’ve just changed directions. You think Van Gogh was a failure when he died poor? The world called him that. But now we call him a genius. So who was right? Time? Or truth?”

Host: The rain grew heavier, beating on the roof like a slow drumbeat. The air was charged, electric with conflict and revelation.

Jack: “You’re twisting words. Someone wins, someone loses — that’s the reality of the world. It’s what makes evolution happen. The strong survive. That’s how progress works.”

Jeeny: “And yet, the strongest species aren’t the ones who conquer, but the ones who adapt. Even Darwin said that. Strength isn’t about victory; it’s about resilience. Maybe success and failure are just different costumes for the same lesson.”

Jack: “So you’d tell a soldier who lost his comrades in battle** that there’s no failure?”

Jeeny: “I’d tell him there’s pain. And that pain isn’t wrong. It’s real, and it teaches. It’s what makes us human. We grow from it. Maybe that’s the only success that matters.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, and Jack stopped pacing, his eyes fixed on the floor, hands tightening around the glass until the whiskey trembled.

Jack: “You talk like you’ve never lost.”

Jeeny: “I have. I’ve failed, I’ve loved and been broken, I’ve stood on stages and forgotten words I thought I’d remember forever. And in those moments, I realized — there’s no wrong in falling. The only wrong is refusing to rise again.”

Host: A beat of silence. Even the rain seemed to listen. The soundboard lights blinked, one by one, like heartbeat monitors.

Jack: “You make it sound like we can just rewrite the rules of existence whenever we want.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s exactly what living is — a constant rewrite. Every choice, every mistake, a draft in progress. Maybe the right and wrong you cling to are just training wheels for the soul.”

Host: Jack looked up, and in that moment, his eyes held both anger and admiration.

Jack: “You think we’re souls, Jeeny. I think we’re just animals trying to make sense of the chaos.”

Jeeny: “Then even in chaos, we’re creating meaning. Maybe that’s what success really is — not winning, but understanding.”

Host: The rain began to slow, and a faint light from the streetlamp leaked into the room, illuminating the dust that danced in the air — particles of the moment itself.

Jack: “You know, I envy that. That ability to find beauty in the mess. I see failure, you see a lesson. I see wrong, you see growth. Maybe you’re right — maybe it’s all just perspective.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not about being right or wrong. Maybe it’s about being awake.”

Host: Her voice softened, like the rain’s echo, fading into the walls. Jack sat down again, his expression calmer, as if some internal weight had lifted.

Jack: “So there’s no success, no failure, no right, no wrong… just being.”

Jeeny: “Just being. And becoming. Every moment a new chance to begin again.”

Host: The city outside was now silent, the rain ceased, leaving behind the shimmer of streetlights on wet asphalt. The clock on the wall ticked, steady, gentle, like the pulse of time itself.

Jack looked at Jeeny, and for the first time that night, he smiled — not in defeat, not in agreement, but in understanding.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the real success, huh? Not needing to win the argument.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the real freedom, Jack. To finally stop keeping score.”

Host: And as the lights dimmed, and the sound of the city returned like a distant heartbeat, they both sat quietly, two souls suspended between certainty and wonder.

Outside, the neon flickered once, then steadied, reflecting off the rain-slick pavement — a perfect metaphor for the truth they’d just found:
That there is no right, no wrong, no success, no failure —
only the courage to keep living the song.