We don't appreciate what we have until it's gone. Freedom is like

The rain had softened to a mist, brushing against the café window like a fading memory. The evening light was dim, touched with the amber glow of hanging bulbs that swayed ever so slightly in the draft from the open door. The world outside was quiet; the rush-hour noise had ebbed into distant hums. Inside, Jack and Jeeny sat across from each other—two silhouettes framed by the city’s calm pulse.

Host: The café felt timeless—like a refuge from a world that had forgotten how to pause. Jack’s grey eyes stared into his cup as if searching for something beneath the ripples of coffee. Jeeny, elbows on the table, looked at him softly, as though waiting for the right moment to speak.

Jeeny: “I read a quote by Boris Yeltsin today,” she said, her voice gentle, but carrying a quiet weight. ‘We don’t appreciate what we have until it’s gone. Freedom is like that. It’s like air. When you have it, you don’t notice it.’”
She paused, looking out at the rain. “It struck me. We take so much for granted—especially freedom. Do you think that’s just human nature, Jack? To only realize the value of something once it’s gone?”

Jack: He leaned back, the chair creaking softly beneath him. His voice low, thoughtful. “Maybe it is human nature. We live surrounded by things we assume will always be there—air, safety, love, freedom. We build our lives on them without even noticing. It’s only when they vanish that we understand how fragile they are. Yeltsin’s right. Freedom is like air—you only realize its worth when you’re gasping for it.”

Jeeny: “That’s the tragedy of it, isn’t it?” she said softly. “People fight for freedom, die for it, and then once it’s achieved, the next generation forgets what it cost. It becomes invisible, something assumed. And that’s when it’s most at risk—when no one notices it’s slipping away.”

Host: The light flickered slightly, the hum of the espresso machine filling the momentary silence. The rain slowed, and a faint glow of headlights passed over their faces—like fleeting thoughts of the past. Jack’s expression hardened slightly, not in anger, but in reflection.

Jack: “It’s the curse of comfort,” he said. “When life becomes too easy, we lose our sense of vigilance. Freedom stops feeling like a gift and starts feeling like an entitlement. But history doesn’t work that way. Every era that forgets the price of freedom ends up paying for it again.”
He looked up at her. “Look at any revolution, any regime that rose on the promise of liberation—France, Russia, even modern democracies. The cycle repeats. Freedom decays in silence, not through invasion, but through apathy.”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she nodded, eyes glistening faintly in the café’s glow. “It’s almost as if freedom dies not with a scream, but with a sigh. When people stop caring, stop speaking, stop noticing. When we’re so consumed by our small personal struggles that we forget the larger ones that gave us this peace in the first place.”

Host: The air thickened between them, the weight of reflection heavy but tender. Jack’s fingers tapped against the mug—slow, rhythmic, like a heartbeat struggling to remember something it once knew.

Jack: “The irony is that freedom doesn’t feel like much when you have it. It’s quiet. It doesn’t demand attention. It doesn’t roar—it breathes. It’s only when someone tries to take it away that we hear how loud that silence truly was.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why it’s like air,” she murmured. “You don’t see it, you don’t touch it, but it sustains everything. Without it, everything else collapses. And the saddest part is that once it’s gone, no amount of regret can bring it back quickly. It takes generations to rebuild.”

Host: The café door opened for a moment—a gust of cool air swept through, carrying the scent of rain and the faint laughter of strangers outside. It passed as quickly as it came, leaving behind a deeper stillness.

Jack: “Do you think people ever truly learn?” he asked, voice quieter now, almost to himself. “We’ve seen wars, dictatorships, revolutions. We’ve seen what happens when freedom is stolen. And yet… we still forget. Every time.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s because freedom isn’t just political,” she said. “It’s personal too. The freedom to think, to feel, to choose—even those, we take for granted. We let fear, guilt, or conformity steal them from us, little by little. Maybe the fight for freedom isn’t just about nations—it’s about keeping our souls unchained.”

Host: Jack’s grey eyes softened, a faint smile ghosting across his face—a rare moment of warmth breaking through the heaviness.

Jack: “That’s beautifully said. Freedom starts small, doesn’t it? Before we lose it in the world, we often lose it in ourselves. We let the world tell us who we should be, what we should fear, what we should believe. And then one day we realize—we’ve been breathing someone else’s air.”

Jeeny: She smiled faintly, the kind of smile that comes with understanding and sorrow all at once. “Maybe that’s what Yeltsin meant too. Freedom isn’t a constant state—it’s a practice, something we must tend to, every day. Like breathing consciously. Like remembering gratitude for every breath.”

Host: The rain had stopped now, leaving only the sound of silence—a deep, almost sacred quiet. Outside, the clouds began to part, letting a pale moon spill light onto the glistening pavement.

Jack and Jeeny sat in that quiet, two souls reflecting on the invisible air they had both been breathing their whole lives.

Host: The glow from the window lit their faces—Jack’s lined with thought, Jeeny’s softened with hope. And in that shared silence, they understood what Yeltsin had meant.

Freedom is rarely noticed when it is present. It is subtle, like breath, like light, like love—quietly sustaining everything, until its absence chokes the world awake.

Host: And as the café’s lights dimmed and the night settled in, their last shared look seemed to say the same thing:
Remember the air you breathe. Remember the freedom you forget.