There's only one requirement of any of us, and that is to be

Host: The city was drowning in the soft orange haze of evening — that hour between exhaustion and forgiveness. From the rooftop of an old apartment building, the world looked fragile: lights flickering on one by one, cars humming below, clouds moving slow and deliberate like thoughts too heavy to fade.

The faint hum of traffic, the whisper of wind, the smell of distant rain — everything felt suspended, caught in the invisible rhythm of something ending and beginning all at once.

Jack stood near the edge, his hands tucked into his coat pockets, the wind pulling at his hair. His eyes, sharp but tired, scanned the skyline like a man searching for something he wasn’t sure existed anymore.

Jeeny sat cross-legged on the concrete, a small flask beside her, her long hair fluttering against the light. The glow of a single streetlamp below reflected in her eyes like tiny suns. She looked calm, but there was an intensity beneath her stillness — the kind that only comes from people who’ve felt fear and chosen to stay anyway.

Between them, on a torn sheet of paper weighed down by a stone, were words scrawled in black ink — a quote they’d been talking about since sunset.

“There’s only one requirement of any of us, and that is to be courageous. Because courage, as you might know, defines all other human behavior. And, I believe — because I’ve done a little of this myself — pretending to be courageous is just as good as the real thing.”
— David Letterman

Host: The wind tugged at the paper, but it stayed. The words seemed to pulse in the amber light — alive, amused, daring them to disagree.

Jack: (smirking) Pretending to be courageous. That sounds like something I’ve mastered.

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) Most people have. They just call it “getting by.”

Jack: (chuckles) So faking it counts now?

Jeeny: (softly) Maybe. If pretending gets you through the fire, isn’t it a kind of courage already?

Jack: (shakes his head) I don’t buy it. Courage has to be real. Otherwise, it’s just acting.

Jeeny: (leans forward) Maybe acting is the first step. You fake the posture long enough until your soul catches up.

Host: The city lights below shimmered like distant stars. A siren wailed somewhere far off, then faded into the pulse of the streets.

Jack: (quietly) Courage defines all other behavior… Letterman had a point. Without courage, love dies, truth hides, and everything else collapses into fear.

Jeeny: (nodding) Courage is the skeleton of the soul. Everything else — kindness, honesty, compassion — it all hangs on that frame.

Jack: (smiling) Then maybe humanity’s just a collection of cowards trying to stand straight.

Jeeny: (grinning) And doing it beautifully, most of the time.

Host: The wind picked up, brushing a chill across the rooftop. The sun had sunk low now, leaving streaks of violet and indigo across the sky. Their faces were shadowed, but their words — bright and alive — cut through the dimness.

Jack: (softly) You ever been truly brave, Jeeny? Not the movie kind. The real, stupid, heart-breaking kind?

Jeeny: (thinks for a moment) Once. When I told someone I loved them knowing they wouldn’t say it back.

Jack: (looks at her) That’s not courage. That’s masochism.

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) Maybe. But I did it anyway. And for a moment, I felt free.

Jack: (leans against the railing) So courage is freedom?

Jeeny: (quietly) No. Freedom is what happens after courage.

Host: The sky deepened, turning the horizon into a slow-burning ember. Jack looked away — not from her, but from something inside himself.

Jack: (after a pause) I’ve pretended to be brave for years. At work. In love. Even in loss. Sometimes I think I’ve spent more time acting than living.

Jeeny: (softly) Acting takes strength too. You can’t fake courage unless some part of you already has it.

Jack: (raises an eyebrow) You think pretending’s a rehearsal for the real thing?

Jeeny: (nods) Exactly. You trick your fear into silence long enough to remember you can move.

Host: A distant train horn cut through the hum of the city — long, mournful, human. The light around them dimmed until only the faint orange of the rooftop lamp remained.

Jack: (quietly) Courage isn’t loud, is it?

Jeeny: (shakes her head) No. It’s quiet. It’s showing up when you’d rather disappear. It’s saying, “I’m fine” when you’re not — not because you’re lying, but because you’re still choosing to stand.

Jack: (smiles faintly) That’s pretending.

Jeeny: (softly) That’s surviving.

Host: The night settled deeper, carrying with it the metallic scent of approaching rain.

Jack: (after a long silence) You know, I’ve always admired people who look fearless — the ones who walk into chaos like it’s choreography.

Jeeny: (smiling) They’re the best actors of all.

Jack: (laughs quietly) So the world’s just one big play about pretending not to be afraid.

Jeeny: (softly) Maybe. But in pretending, we create truth. That’s the paradox. You fake strength, and somehow, you find it.

Jack: (sighs) Maybe that’s why I’ve always liked performers. They make fear look elegant.

Jeeny: (nodding) Because courage isn’t about absence of fear. It’s about learning to dance with it.

Host: The wind whipped across the rooftop, fluttering Jeeny’s hair and sending the paper skittering closer to the edge. Jack caught it just in time — his hand slamming down on it, his heart unexpectedly quickened.

Jack: (grinning) See? That’s courage — or reflex. Hard to tell the difference.

Jeeny: (smiling) Maybe they’re the same thing sometimes. Acting before you think too much.

Host: The paper fluttered under his palm like something alive — fragile, human, and true.

Jack: (quietly) You know, when I was younger, I thought courage was grand — saving lives, risking everything. But the older I get, the more I think it’s… ordinary.

Jeeny: (softly) It is. Courage is going to bed after a bad day and still waking up.

Jack: (nods slowly) Or saying “I’m sorry.” Or “I forgive you.”

Jeeny: (gently) Or “I’ll try again.”

Host: The rain began in small drops — soft, hesitant, like the sky was testing its courage too. It darkened the concrete around them, each drop a punctuation mark on the moment.

Jack: (smiling faintly) You really believe pretending can save us?

Jeeny: (quietly) I believe pretending gives us time — to grow into the courage we’re trying to find.

Jack: (after a beat) Then maybe I’ve been braver than I thought.

Jeeny: (smiling) You have. Most people are. They just don’t give themselves the credit.

Host: The rain fell harder now, but neither moved. The city lights reflected off the wet rooftop, turning every surface into a mirror of flickering gold.

Jack: (looking up at the sky) So, the only requirement of any of us… is courage.

Jeeny: (softly) Because without it, we stop becoming.

Jack: (after a pause) And pretending — that’s the bridge.

Jeeny: (nods) The bridge between fear and faith.

Host: The thunder rolled in the distance — deep, gentle, almost reassuring.

Jack: (smiles faintly) You know, Letterman was right. Pretending’s not fake. It’s faith in disguise.

Jeeny: (quietly) And maybe that’s all courage ever is — faith pretending it’s stronger than fear.

Host: The rain eased to a drizzle. The paper between them was damp now, the ink bleeding slightly, the words softening — but not disappearing.

They both looked at it — the black lines running like veins across white — and for a moment, both felt it: that strange warmth that lives somewhere between exhaustion and hope.

Host: Jack reached down, folded the page carefully, and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

Host: The city shimmered beneath them, endless and alive — a million tiny stories of people pretending, enduring, becoming.

Host: And as the night settled fully, their quiet laughter rose above the rooftops — soft, human, unafraid.

Host: Because courage, real or imagined, is still the act of standing where fear tells you to kneel — and pretending, for just one more heartbeat, that you were born brave.