We're drawn to making our mark, leaving a record to show we were

Host: The rain had stopped just an hour ago, leaving the streets slick and shimmering like mirrors. Inside the small bookshop café, the air smelled of old paper, coffee, and damp umbrellas drying by the door. The clock ticked softly above the counter — patient, indifferent.

At a corner table by the window sat Jeeny, a battered journal open before her, pages bursting with scraps of paper, half-dried flowers, ticket stubs, and quick, wandering sketches. Her pen moved without hesitation, a river of thoughts spilling across the page.

Jack entered, shaking off his coat, his expression a mix of fatigue and curiosity. He spotted her immediately — the small storm of creation sitting amid the calm — and walked over, his boots clicking lightly on the wooden floor.

Host: The sunlight pressed faintly through the window, catching the edges of her journal like the frame of an unfinished painting.

Jack: sitting down, amused “You’re at it again, I see. Scribbling away the meaning of life?”

Jeeny: without looking up “Something like that. Or maybe just proving I exist.”

Jack: raises an eyebrow “You need proof?”

Jeeny: finally looks up, smiling faintly “Don’t we all? Keri Smith once said — ‘We’re drawn to making our mark, leaving a record to show we were here, and a journal is a great place to do it. Once you start drawing, writing, and gluing stuff in every day, it can quickly become a habit — addictive, even. Your attitude should be: “I can do this, but I mustn’t make it too intimidating.”’ That’s what I’m doing. Making marks before I disappear.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his gray eyes studying her as though she were part of an exhibit — fascinating, but impractical.

Jack: “You really think ink can keep you from vanishing? Paper burns, Jeeny. Memories fade. Nothing stays.”

Jeeny: gently closes the journal “But while it’s here, it feels like it stays. That’s enough.”

Jack: smirks “You sound like one of those people who keeps gratitude lists and dried petals in shoeboxes.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like one of those people who secretly wishes they could.”

Host: The barista passed by, the hiss of the espresso machine cutting through their silence. Outside, the clouds began to break, letting in timid streaks of light.

Jack: “You know, I never understood that kind of thing — journaling. People write to remember, but all they’re doing is curating illusions. They turn chaos into neat little sentences. Life isn’t neat, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “No. But a journal doesn’t have to be neat. It just has to be yours. It’s not about control — it’s about witnessing. Even if the pages are a mess, at least they tell the truth.”

Jack: “Truth? Or your version of it?”

Jeeny: shrugs, smiling “Same thing.”

Host: The sunlight shifted again, warming her face, glinting off the silver ring on her finger. Jack stared at the journal on the table, the frayed edges of its pages like the feathers of a wounded bird — imperfect, but alive.

Jack: “You really think people write journals to make art out of their lives?”

Jeeny: “Not art. Evidence.”

Jack: “Of what?”

Jeeny: “That they were. That they tried. That the world touched them, even for a moment.”

Host: A distant train horn echoed through the city, its sound swallowed by the walls of the café. Jack’s eyes softened, though his tone stayed measured.

Jack: “When I was younger, I kept a notebook. Just a plain one. I’d write what happened every day — what I ate, what I saw, who I met. Then one day I looked back and realized it didn’t mean anything. It was all just… filler.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the meaning isn’t in what you wrote, but in the fact that you cared enough to write at all.”

Jack: quietly “Maybe.”

Host: He looked away, out the window, where a single pigeon was pecking at crumbs near a puddle. The reflection of the sky trembled in the water — blue, uncertain.

Jeeny: “You stopped writing, didn’t you?”

Jack: nods “Yeah. Life got too fast. Then too quiet. And after that, it didn’t feel worth recording.”

Jeeny: softly “That’s when it matters most.”

Jack: half-smiles “You really think scribbles and glue can save a soul?”

Jeeny: “Not save. Remind.”

Host: The café door opened; a rush of cool air swept through, stirring the loose pages of her journal. One fell onto the floor. Jack bent to pick it up — a small drawing of a tree, each branch labeled with fragments of words: “love,” “loss,” “dream,” “return.”

Jack: quietly, reading “This looks like a map.”

Jeeny: “It is. Of where I’ve been, and where I want to go. Every page is a footprint.”

Jack: “And what happens when you get lost?”

Jeeny: “Then I draw another path.”

Host: He set the page down carefully, his fingers lingering on the edge. The light had softened now, brushing everything in gold.

Jack: “You know, there’s something about what you said earlier — about marks. We all want to leave them. But most people just carve their names into others and call it legacy.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. But a journal — that’s different. It’s not about being remembered by others. It’s about remembering yourself.”

Jack: leaning back, reflective “So journaling’s like building a museum for one.”

Jeeny: smiling “Yes. And every day, you add a new exhibit.”

Host: The room seemed to glow as she spoke — a strange kind of peace settling between them. The ticking of the clock grew louder, rhythmic, grounding.

Jack: “You make it sound easy. But I think that’s what scares people. The blank page — it’s judgment in white.”

Jeeny: “That’s why Keri Smith said it shouldn’t be intimidating. It’s not about making something perfect; it’s about showing up. That’s what makes it real — not talent, not skill. Just presence.”

Jack: softly “Presence…”

Jeeny: “Yes. Every page is a conversation between who you are and who you’re becoming.”

Host: He nodded slowly, his usual cynicism melting beneath a strange quiet. The rainlight outside shifted again, painting faint prisms across the tabletop.

Jack: “Maybe I should start again. Not for meaning — just… to keep track of the days before they vanish.”

Jeeny: “You should. And don’t edit too much. Let it be messy. Let it breathe.”

Jack: “Messy’s easy. Breathing’s harder.”

Jeeny: “That’s why you need both.”

Host: A smile passed between them — brief, sincere, unguarded.

Jeeny: teasing “If you start journaling again, I expect sketches too. Glue something ridiculous in there — like a coffee receipt or a napkin.”

Jack: “You’re assuming I’ll let anyone see it.”

Jeeny: “You don’t need to. The point isn’t to be seen. The point is to see yourself more clearly.”

Host: The clock struck five. The barista began stacking cups, the end-of-day ritual humming softly in the background.

Outside, the streets gleamed. Inside, two cups of coffee had gone cold, but neither of them seemed to mind.

Jack picked up one of Jeeny’s pens and twirled it absently between his fingers.

Jack: murmuring “Maybe that’s the real mark — not what we leave behind, but what we find while we’re here.”

Jeeny: nodding “That’s all a journal is — evidence of presence.”

Host: The light dimmed slowly, sliding off the windowpane. The last train rumbled somewhere beneath the city.

Jeeny closed her journal, her hands resting gently on the cover as if protecting something alive. Jack stared at it, at her, at the quiet around them.

And for once, the cynic didn’t speak.

Host: In the silence, the truth felt simple:
We make marks not to prove we mattered — but to remember that, for a moment, we truly were.

And somewhere in that small café, between ink and laughter and rainlight, the world — messy, human, imperfect — finally learned how to breathe.