When you create Hope in people, you create expectations. When you

Host: The city was drenched in a dim, orange glow as the sun sank behind a row of abandoned factories. The air was thick with mist and the smell of rust and old metal. A lonely streetlight flickered, throwing shadows across the wet pavement where puddles caught the dying light.

Inside a small, forgotten diner, the neon sign outside buzzed softly — “OPEN,” it said, though no one seemed to believe it.

Jack sat in the corner, his grey eyes fixed on the steam rising from his coffee. His jacket hung loosely from his shoulders, his posture weary, his mind elsewhere.

Across from him, Jeeny held her cup with both hands, gazing out the window as raindrops dripped down the glass like tears.

The city outside was silent, waiting — as if it, too, expected something that would never come.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, I was thinking about that quote I sent you. The one from Vermin Supreme — ‘When you create Hope in people, you create expectations. When you do not fulfill those expectations, that Hope turns to anger, frustration, and bitter disappointment.’”

Jack: “Yeah. I read it. Sounds about right. That’s how revolutions die — not with violence, but with disappointment.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound like Hope’s a disease.”

Jack: “Maybe it is. Hope’s what politicians sell when they’ve got nothing real to offer. It’s the currency of control. Give people something to believe in, and they’ll wait — and while they wait, nothing changes.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes narrowed slightly. Her fingers tightened around the cup, the heat of it seeping into her skin.

Jeeny: “That’s a cynical way to look at it. Hope isn’t control, Jack — it’s fuel. It’s what keeps people standing when everything else collapses. Think of Martin Luther King Jr., or Gandhi — without Hope, there would’ve been no movement, no reason to fight.”

Jack: “And yet, after King was gone, the streets still burned. After Gandhi, India bled in partition. Every time someone promises change, they ignite Hope — and when the world doesn’t follow, that same Hope turns to rage. People don’t just want to dream, Jeeny. They want results.”

Jeeny: “So what, then? We should stop hoping altogether? Just accept the rot because it’s safer than disappointment?”

Host: The rain beat harder against the windows. The diner’s old ceiling fan whirred, its sound like a slow, tired heartbeat.

Jack leaned forward, his voice low.

Jack: “I’m saying — if you light a fire in someone’s heart, you’d better be ready to feed it. Otherwise, it’ll just burn the whole house down. Look at the Arab Spring. People were told freedom was coming — they believed it. But what came? More chaos, more dictators, more broken promises. Hope became ash.”

Jeeny: “And yet, some of them still fight. Because without Hope, they’d have nothing left. The danger isn’t Hope itself — it’s the betrayal of it. The leaders who abuse it. That’s not on the people; that’s on those who use Hope like a slogan.”

Jack: “But don’t you see? People never learn. They build idols from the same stone that crushed them before. They elect new faces, chant new names, but the system doesn’t change. Hope becomes a drug — it keeps them numb, not free.”

Host: A pause hung between them, heavy as smoke. Outside, a bus rumbled past, its lights briefly flashing across their faces, revealing the tiredness in his eyes and the defiance in hers.

Jeeny: “So what would you rather have, Jack? A world without Hope? Without expectation? Just survival?”

Jack: “At least survival’s honest. It doesn’t promise anything it can’t deliver.”

Jeeny: “That’s not living, Jack — that’s enduring.”

Host: Her voice shook slightly, not from anger, but from the weight of what she believed.

Jeeny: “You talk about Hope like it’s poison. But even poison can heal, in the right dose. Think about the people who believed in the Berlin Wall falling, or in the end of apartheid — Hope wasn’t manipulation there. It was power. It was the thing that made the impossible happen.”

Jack: “And for every Berlin Wall, there are a thousand empty promises. Every election, every protest, every revolution that starts with songs and ends with silence. You want to talk about power? Power belongs to those who can manage Hope, not those who feel it.”

Jeeny: “You sound like the very men you hate. Cold. Detached. Calculating.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly, a sad, crooked smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what happens when you’ve seen too many dreams die. I watched my father wait for years — for a government job that never came, for a pension that never existed. Hope made him believe he mattered. Then one day, he realized he didn’t. That’s when Hope stopped being beautiful and became cruel.”

Jeeny: “That’s not cruelty, Jack. That’s neglect. Cruelty comes from the people who made him believe and then walked away. Don’t blame Hope for the sins of those who betrayed it.”

Host: The clock ticked loudly now, its rhythm echoing through the room like a slow drumbeat. The waitress had long retreated to the kitchen, leaving them in the flickering light of the neon sign.

Jack: “You keep saying Hope is good, Jeeny. But tell me — what happens when it turns? When all those faces that looked to you start looking at you with anger because you couldn’t deliver what they dreamed of? I’ve seen it. Hope’s light can turn people into monsters.”

Jeeny: “Then teach them patience. Teach them to Hope differently. Real Hope isn’t about expecting miracles, it’s about building them. Together. Slowly.”

Jack: “That sounds poetic. But patience is a privilege. Hungry people can’t wait, Jeeny. The poor can’t meditate on virtue while their stomachs growl. When you raise Hope among the desperate, it’s not just dangerous — it’s cruel.”

Jeeny: “So what’s your answer? Silence them? Tell them to stop believing, to stop dreaming? That’s not realism, Jack. That’s despair dressed up as wisdom.”

Host: The tension snapped then — like a wire pulled too tight. Jeeny’s eyes shone with tears, but her voice rose, fierce and trembling.

Jeeny: “Hope isn’t meant to be safe! It’s meant to be daring. It’s meant to risk heartbreak. That’s how every real change happens — by risking disappointment. By believing anyway.”

Jack: “Believing anyway... until it kills you.”

Host: The rain softened outside, turning from thunder to whisper. Jack’s hand shook slightly as he lit a cigarette, the flame reflecting in his eyes — a small, fragile light.

Jeeny: “Maybe Hope isn’t supposed to be fulfilled, Jack. Maybe it’s supposed to keep us reaching, even when we fall short.”

Jack: “You mean it’s supposed to hurt?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes, yes. Because only when it hurts do we realize what still matters.”

Host: The words hung in the air, quiet and raw. Jack looked at her for a long moment, the smoke curling between them like a veil.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the pain’s part of it. Maybe anger and disappointment are just the shadow of something real — the proof that people still care.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. When people stop being angry, that’s when Hope’s truly dead.”

Host: Silence returned, but it wasn’t the same silence. It was softer, warmer, like the air after a storm.

Jack stubbed out his cigarette, his voice quieter now.

Jack: “So, Hope’s a fire. Dangerous if untended. But maybe… necessary to stay alive.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And even when it burns, it still gives light.”

Host: The rain stopped. The neon sign outside glowed steady now, its letters shining clear through the mist. Jack and Jeeny sat in the half-light, the world quiet, the city still.

For a moment, both believed — not in promises, not in miracles — but in the fragile, enduring human need to Hope again.