Time scoots along pretty fast when you grow up.

Host:
The train station was quiet, the way only certain places can be when everyone’s already gone. Light filtered through tall glass windows, streaked and golden, catching the slow drift of dust in the air. Outside, the tracks gleamed in the evening sun, two long ribbons of silver stretching into the horizon — endless, patient, ancient.

A half-forgotten clock hung above the platform, its hands worn, its ticks barely audible. It read 6:17, but it could’ve been any time. It was the kind of hour that felt like both ending and beginning.

Jack sat on a wooden bench, his suitcase beside him, the old leather creased and weathered like his hands. His grey eyes followed the slow rhythm of a passing freight train, his expression still, his thoughts elsewhere.

Jeeny arrived a few moments later, a soft breeze catching her hair, carrying the faint scent of jasmine and the outside world. Her brown eyes searched the platform until they found him, and she smiled — the small, knowing kind that only time could teach.

Host:
As she sat beside him, the silence folded around them, familiar and full of all the words they’d said before. Somewhere above them, like the whisper of an old film reel, Alan Ladd’s voice seemed to drift through the dust and sunlight:

"Time scoots along pretty fast when you grow up."

Jeeny:
(softly)
You ever notice how the older we get, the more the years start to feel like weeks?

Jack:
(grins faintly)
Yeah. When I was a kid, summers felt like forever. Now I blink and it’s Christmas again.

Jeeny:
Time used to be heavy, didn’t it? Every day mattered. Every hour felt like something you could hold.

Jack:
Now it’s just smoke. You reach for it, and it’s already gone.

Jeeny:
(smiling gently)
Maybe that’s why kids run everywhere — they still think time’s something they can outrun.

Jack:
And we walk slow because we’ve figured out we never really could.

Host:
The station clock ticked softly. The sound was steady, unhurried, indifferent. A pigeon fluttered past the rafters, its wings brushing the still air like a page being turned in a very old book.

Jeeny:
When I was sixteen, I used to lie awake and dream about being older. I wanted to skip ahead — be free, make my own choices.

Jack:
And now?

Jeeny:
Now I wish I could press pause. Just… stand still for a while.

Jack:
Funny. We spend half our lives wanting to grow up and the other half trying to remember what it felt like when time didn’t feel like a thief.

Jeeny:
Maybe that’s what growing up really is — realizing time was never a friend, just a mirror we keep catching glimpses of ourselves in.

Jack:
Yeah. And one day, you look in that mirror and think, “When did the kid in me start looking back like a stranger?”

Host:
The words hung between them like the faint hum of the rails. The sunlight had shifted — darker now, almost copper, turning the edges of the world to fire.

A train in the distance sounded its horn — low, mournful, infinite.

Jeeny:
You think that’s why people keep old photos? To remind themselves that time wasn’t always in a hurry?

Jack:
(smiling)
Maybe. Or maybe it’s just to prove they were once limitless — before clocks and bills and goodbyes started writing the chapters.

Jeeny:
(sighs)
Sometimes I think time’s like a camera. It only captures what’s already over.

Jack:
And the cruel part is — it keeps the picture, and we keep the feeling.

Host:
The wind outside shifted again, carrying the faint smell of rain. A faraway thunder rolled like a sleepy drum. For a moment, both of them looked out across the tracks — two silhouettes framed against the coming storm, both listening to something they couldn’t name.

Jeeny:
You ever wish you could go back?

Jack:
All the time. But not to change anything. Just to feel it again. The weight of being young. The endlessness of waiting for the next thing.

Jeeny:
Yeah. When the days were so long, they almost frightened you.

Jack:
And nights were a promise instead of a memory.

Jeeny:
(quietly)
Time scoots along pretty fast when you grow up…

Jack:
(nods)
Yeah. Too fast to fix anything. Just fast enough to understand what you missed.

Host:
The sound of the approaching train grew louder, a low vibration that trembled through the floorboards. The light changed again — brighter, fleeting — casting long shadows across the platform.

Jack’s hand brushed against Jeeny’s, a quiet, accidental gesture that carried more memory than movement.

Jeeny:
You ever wonder what makes time speed up?

Jack:
Maybe it’s repetition. When you’re a kid, everything’s new. Every moment’s its own story. But when you grow up, life becomes patterns. The days start to rhyme.

Jeeny:
(smirks)
So the trick is to keep breaking the rhyme.

Jack:
Exactly. Keep doing things that make time trip over itself. Fall in love. Get lost. Start over. Anything that confuses the clock.

Jeeny:
You make it sound easy.

Jack:
It’s not. But it’s worth it. Because once time starts running faster, it doesn’t slow down again. You just have to learn to run with it — or dance.

Host:
The train finally pulled into the station, all steam and light and motion. Its doors hissed open. The engineer’s whistle sliced the air.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The world, for once, held still — long enough for them to feel the weight of every second passing.

Jeeny:
(softly)
You getting on?

Jack:
(smiling faintly)
Eventually. You?

Jeeny:
Eventually.

Jack:
Then I guess we’ve got a minute.

Host:
They sat in silence again, the sound of rain beginning to patter on the roof above. The clock ticked on. The train waited, humming.

And for that one small moment — a pause between departure and arrival, past and future — time stopped pretending to move fast. It breathed with them.

Host:
When the train finally pulled away, its light fading down the tracks, the station fell back into quiet. The clock still ticked, but softer now. The rain whispered its slow lullaby against the windows.

Jeeny stood, brushing the dust from her jacket. Jack stayed seated, his gaze lost in the space where motion had just been.

Jeeny:
You know, I think Alan Ladd was right — time does scoot along pretty fast. But maybe it’s not supposed to slow down. Maybe we’re just supposed to look longer.

Jack:
(smiles)
Yeah. Look longer. Remember deeper. Live before the train leaves.

Host:
She nodded, and together they walked toward the exit — two figures bathed in the soft light of a world still spinning, still fleeting.

And as the station faded behind them, Alan Ladd’s words lingered like the last note of a familiar tune:

That time, once patient, becomes a blur when we stop seeing it;
that every moment, even the small ones,
deserves to be held before it runs ahead;

and that the great secret of growing up
is not learning how to stop time,
but learning how to meet it halfway —
breathless, awake, and still in love with the passing hours.