To be angry is to revenge the faults of others on ourselves.

Host: The afternoon light slanted through the old apartment blinds, slicing the dust-filled air into thin golden ribbons. Outside, the city hummed with its usual chaos — sirens, car horns, voices rising and fading like a restless tide. Inside, the room was still, except for the slow tick of a clock and the soft hiss of a kettle coming to boil.

Jack sat at the kitchen table, his fingers tapping against an empty glass, his jaw set tight. Jeeny leaned against the counter, watching him with quiet concern, her hair catching the light like a dark wave.

A single sheet of paper lay between them — a termination notice from Jack’s job.

Jeeny: “Alexander Pope said, ‘To be angry is to revenge the faults of others on ourselves.’”

Jack: (bitterly) “He must’ve never had a boss like mine.”

Host: The steam from the kettle curled upward, drifting between them like a slow-moving ghost.

Jeeny: “You can’t keep doing this, Jack. Every time someone wrongs you, you let it eat you alive. That’s what Pope meant — your anger doesn’t punish them. It punishes you.”

Jack: (snorts) “Spoken like someone who’s never been betrayed. He stole my design, Jeeny. My work. And I’m supposed to just... let it go?”

Jeeny: “Letting go isn’t the same as letting them win.”

Jack: “Feels the same.”

Host: The sound of the city outside seemed to fade as the room thickened with silence. The kettle clicked off, and a faint whistle echoed — sharp, final.

Jeeny: (pouring tea into two mugs) “Do you remember what you told me when my friend used my photos without asking?”

Jack: (mutters) “You were crying for three days. I told you to stop wasting your time being mad.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.” (smiles faintly) “You said, ‘Don’t give her your peace just because she took your picture.’ Funny how you can’t follow your own advice.”

Jack: (gritting his teeth) “That was different.”

Jeeny: “Was it? Or are you just choosing to suffer because it feels like justice?”

Host: The tea in the mugs sent up delicate curls of steam, the scent of bergamot and bitterness mingling in the air. Jack’s hands trembled slightly as he picked his up.

Jack: “You don’t understand, Jeeny. This wasn’t some personal slight — this was my career. Five years of work gone. He took my blueprint and my promotion, and now I’m supposed to drink tea and meditate?”

Jeeny: (quietly) “No. But maybe stop drinking your own poison and calling it revenge.”

Host: The words hit him like a quiet blow. Jack’s eyes flickered — a flash of hurt, a spark of defiance, then something softer. The light outside dimmed, as a cloud moved across the sun, plunging the room into a dull, gray shadow.

Jack: “You think I want this? You think I like feeling this way? I wake up angry. I go to sleep angry. It’s the only thing that makes me feel alive right now.”

Jeeny: “Then it’s killing you slowly, Jack.”

Jack: “Better than feeling nothing.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s not. It’s like keeping a fire in your chest and expecting it to burn the other person. Pope was right — anger’s the most efficient form of self-destruction ever invented.”

Host: A police siren wailed distantly, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. The sound passed, and the room returned to its small, suffocating quiet.

Jeeny: “You know who lived by that truth? Nelson Mandela. Twenty-seven years in prison — and when he got out, he said, ‘As I walked out the door toward the gate that would lead to my freedom, I knew if I didn’t leave my bitterness and hatred behind, I’d still be in prison.’”

Jack: (low voice) “Yeah, and I’m not Mandela.”

Jeeny: “No, you’re not. But the principle’s the same. Anger keeps you caged, Jack. It gives you the illusion of power while it drains you dry.”

Jack: (leans forward) “So you think forgiveness fixes everything?”

Jeeny: “No. Forgiveness doesn’t fix them. It frees you.”

Host: The rain began — light, insistent, tapping on the window glass like fingers asking for entry. The smell of wet concrete drifted in through a half-open window.

Jack: “You ever forgive someone who didn’t deserve it?”

Jeeny: (after a pause) “Yes.”

Jack: “How’d that feel?”

Jeeny: “Like breathing after holding my breath too long.”

Jack: (bitterly) “And what did it change?”

Jeeny: “Me. That was enough.”

Host: Jack looked down, his hands tightening around the mug. The heat pressed into his skin, but he didn’t move.

Jeeny: “Do you know what happens when you hold onto anger too long? It becomes identity. You stop being the person who was wronged — you just become the anger itself.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what I am now.”

Jeeny: “Then you’re letting him win twice.”

Host: A drop of rain hit the windowsill, sliding slowly down, catching the gray light. Jack’s reflection followed it — warped, unsteady.

Jack: “You really believe peace is that simple?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s hard. It’s ugly. But it’s the only thing that doesn’t destroy you while pretending to save you.”

Jack: (quietly) “So what do I do with it, then? The anger?”

Jeeny: “You turn it into movement. You learn, you grow, you build something new. Otherwise, it’ll build itself a home inside you — and it never pays rent.”

Host: The clock ticked, and a faint hum from the refrigerator filled the silence. The rain outside deepened, steady, rhythmic — like a slow heartbeat.

Jack: (voice cracking slightly) “He took everything, Jeeny. My work, my reputation. I can’t just walk away from that.”

Jeeny: (softly) “No, but you can walk toward something else. Toward peace. Toward yourself.”

Jack: “And if I can’t?”

Jeeny: “Then at least stop walking toward the fire.”

Host: The light flickered as the sun reemerged, turning the raindrops into tiny sparks on the windowpane. Jack’s shoulders sagged, his anger finally giving way to exhaustion.

Jack: “You know… maybe you’re right. Maybe anger doesn’t destroy them — it just keeps me living in their story instead of writing my own.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Jack: (after a long pause) “Still… it’s hard not to want revenge.”

Jeeny: “Of course it is. You’re human. But real revenge isn’t hurting them back — it’s refusing to let them decide who you become.”

Jack: (half-smiles) “You sound like a fortune cookie.”

Jeeny: “Then take the fortune.”

Host: They both laughed softly — the first real laughter that had broken through the tension. The rain softened, and a faint ray of light fell through the blinds, striping the table in gold.

Jeeny: “You know what the poet was really saying, Jack? That when you carry anger, you become the one who keeps paying for someone else’s sins.”

Jack: (nodding) “Yeah. And I’ve been paying interest.”

Host: Jeeny smiled, reached across the table, and gently touched his hand. The camera lingered there — her hand still, his fingers twitching, the faintest gesture of release.

Outside, the rain stopped, leaving behind the clean smell of renewal.

The city kept moving — indifferent, alive. But inside that small apartment, a single truth hung between them, quiet and luminous:

That to let go of anger was not to forgive the world — it was to forgive oneself for carrying it too long.

And for the first time in weeks, Jack breathed — not in rage, but in something almost like peace.