Things can fall apart, or threaten to, for many reasons, and then

Host: The theatre was dark and quiet, except for the faint hum of the stage lights cooling above. The auditorium seats stretched into shadow — rows and rows of ghosts from past performances. At the center of the stage, under a single soft spotlight, a cello rested upright against a stool, gleaming faintly, as if it still remembered the hands that had coaxed songs from its silence.

The rain outside had just stopped, and the air smelled of damp wood and dust — a scent that carried both endings and beginnings.

Jack stood near the edge of the stage, his hands buried in his coat pockets, looking out into the empty seats as if expecting an audience that no longer existed. Jeeny stood a few feet behind him, her hair loose, her eyes fixed on the cello, her presence steady, like a still note waiting to be struck.

Jeeny: “Yo-Yo Ma once said, ‘Things can fall apart, or threaten to, for many reasons, and then there’s got to be a leap of faith. Ultimately, when you’re at the edge, you have to go forward or backward; if you go forward, you have to jump together.’”

Host: Her voice echoed softly through the empty theatre — a melody without music.

Jack turned slowly, the corners of his mouth twisting into something between a smirk and surrender.

Jack: “A leap of faith, huh? Sounds poetic — until you realize there’s no net.”

Jeeny: “That’s why it’s faith.”

Jack: “No. That’s why it’s madness.”

Host: The light flickered, catching the edge of his face — sharp, tired, full of resistance that didn’t quite hide the fear beneath.

Jeeny: “Maybe madness and faith are the same thing when the ground disappears.”

Jack: “You think people just… jump? You think when everything’s collapsing — jobs, marriages, friendships, the planet — people actually have the luxury to leap?”

Jeeny: “They don’t have a choice, Jack. You can’t stay suspended forever. You either fall back or move forward.”

Jack: “And what if both directions break you?”

Jeeny: “Then you break beautifully.”

Host: The silence that followed felt almost physical — like the moment before a bow touches string. Outside, a car horn wailed, distant, lonely, a reminder that the world still spun beyond their fragile bubble of reflection.

Jack: “You really believe that — in jumping together?”

Jeeny: “I have to. The world’s falling apart faster than any one person can fix it. If we don’t leap together, we don’t land anywhere.”

Host: She walked closer, her footsteps soft on the wooden floor, the echo faint but deliberate, like the rhythm of approaching courage.

Jack: “You sound like you’re talking about music.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I am. Every great performance is a leap. The conductor raises the baton, and for one heartbeat — nobody knows if it will work. The cellist, the violinist, the percussionist — all waiting, all trusting