You change your life by changing your heart.

Host: The train station was nearly empty. Only the low hum of a vending machine, the distant echo of a train horn, and the soft shuffle of boots against tile filled the air. Outside, the night was cold, biting, and the rain had just stopped — leaving the streets slick and reflective, like mirrors that the city had forgotten to clean.

Jack stood by a bench, a duffel bag at his feet, his grey eyes fixed on the departures board. His hands were buried deep in his coat, his posture the shape of someone who had made a decision, but not peace with it.

Jeeny approached from the other end of the platform — umbrella closed, hair damp, eyes tired but steady. She had found him through the rain, the way only someone who knows a person’s silence can.

She didn’t speak at first. Just stood, her breath visible in the cold, watching him. On the bench, a small folded note lay open, with a single line written across it —

"You change your life by changing your heart." — Max Lucado.

Jack: “I didn’t think you’d come.”

Jeeny: “You wrote a note, Jack. You knew I would.”

Jack: “You always did have a weakness for sentences that sound like salvation.”

Jeeny: “And you always had a talent for running from them.”

Host: The loudspeaker crackled, announcing the next departure — a train to somewhere unnamed, unimportant, just a direction to escape in. The rainlight from the streetlamps cast their shadows long and thin, like tethered ghosts stretching toward each other but never quite touching.

Jeeny’s voice broke the stillness, soft but cutting.

Jeeny: “Is this it then? You’re really going?”

Jack: “It’s just a city, Jeeny. People leave cities all the time.”

Jeeny: “No. People leave when they’ve lost something — or when they’re too afraid to find it again.”

Jack: “Maybe both.”

Jeeny: “And which one are you?”

Jack: “I’m just tired. Of trying, of believing, of pretending things change.”

Jeeny: “They do. You just have to change the right thing.”

Jack: “Oh, here we go. Another Lucado sermon. You change your life by changing your heart. It sounds beautiful, but it’s useless when your heart is what’s broken.”

Host: The clock above them ticked, relentless, unbothered by their pause. Jeeny sat on the bench, her fingers tracing the words on the note, her eyes softening as she looked up at him.

Jeeny: “You think a broken heart can’t change you, Jack? That’s the only kind that ever does. You just don’t like that it’s not on your terms.”

Jack: “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

Jeeny: “It means your logic keeps you safe, but it also keeps you stuck. You think the heart is a weakness, but it’s the only engine that ever really moves us.”

Jack: “The heart lies, Jeeny. It forgets what hurts until it hurts again. It forgives what it shouldn’t. It trusts what fails.”

Jeeny: “And yet, it beats. Every day. Despite all of that.”

Host: A whistle pierced the air. The train had arrived, its lights cutting through the mist. The sound was loud, but somehow it made their silence feel even louder.

Jack watched the doors slide open, hesitated. His breathing had slowed, as if his body was waiting for his heart to catch up.

Jack: “You always make it sound so simple. Like change is just a matter of feeling different.”

Jeeny: “It is — but not the kind of feeling you think. It’s not about comfort. It’s about courage.”

Jack: “Courage doesn’t pay rent.”

Jeeny: “No, but it builds a home where you can finally live.”

Jack: “You really believe that, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “I have to. Otherwise, the world just spins, and no one ever grows.”

Host: The rain began to fall again, light, rhythmic, tapping on the metal roof of the station like a heartbeat echoing their words. Jeeny stood, her hair damp, her eyes steady.

Jeeny: “Jack, you don’t need to leave this city. You need to leave who you’ve become in it. That’s what Max Lucado meant. You don’t change by escaping. You change by opening — even when it hurts.”

Jack: “And what if I don’t have anything left to open?”

Jeeny: “Then let something in.”

Jack: “And what exactly is supposed to come in? Hope?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe just light. Even a crack is enough.”

Host: The rain intensified, drumming harder now. A child’s laughter echoed from across the platform, brief, innocent, untouched by the weight of adult questions. Jack’s eyes followed the sound, his expression softening, if only for a moment.

Jack: “You ever wonder why it’s always the heart that has to change? Why not the world?”

Jeeny: “Because the world is just hearts multiplied. Change one, you start to shift the rest.”

Jack: “That’s poetic.”

Jeeny: “It’s practical. Every revolution, every forgiveness, every love story — it all starts there.”

Jack: “So you’re saying if I just… feel differently, I can live differently.”

Jeeny: “No. You have to decide to feel differently. That’s the work. That’s what makes it change, not sentiment.”

Host: A gust of wind swept through the station, lifting Jeeny’s hair, rippling the note on the bench. Jack picked it up, staring at the words, his fingers trembling slightly. The ink had smudged where a raindrop had fallen, but the message was still clear.

Jack: “You think this… this quote can really save someone?”

Jeeny: “Not on paper. But in the moment you believe it? Yes.”

Jack: “You really believe the heart is stronger than habit, stronger than memory?”

Jeeny: “Stronger than fear. Always.”

Host: The train conductor called out, his voice echoing across the platform. The doors were closing soon. Jack looked down the track, the rails gleaming like silver veins leading into darkness. His shoulders tightened, then loosened — just slightly, but enough for Jeeny to see it.

Jack: “Maybe I’ll take the next one.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe you’ll stay.”

Jack: “Maybe.”

Jeeny: “You don’t have to decide everything tonight, Jack. Just… stop running long enough to listen.”

Jack: “To what?”

Jeeny: “To your own heart. It’s the one thing that’s still honest with you.”

Host: The train pulled away, its lights fading into the rain. The platform quieted, the air clearing, the moment stretching into something that felt almost like peace.

Jack sat beside her, his duffel bag untouched, the note folded in his palm. For the first time that night, he breathed — really breathed. The kind of breath that hurts, but also heals.

Jeeny: “You see? That’s what it feels like when the heart starts to turn.”

Jack: “It feels like it’s breaking.”

Jeeny: “That’s because it’s rebuilding.”

Host: The station lights dimmed as the rain slowed, melting into a soft drizzle. A faint sunrise was breaking at the edge of the city, painting the sky with light gold. Jack looked at it, the corners of his mouth lifting, barely — the beginning of a smile he didn’t yet trust, but no longer denied.

Jeeny watched him, quiet, her eyes shining with the kindness that had brought her there.

The camera would have pulled back then — two figures beneath a steel canopy, bathed in dawn, surrounded by echoes of rain and possibility.

And in the soft light, the truth of Lucado’s words lingered, like a prayer that didn’t need to be spoken anymore —

you don’t change your life by escaping it,
you change it by turning toward it,
by changing your heart —
until it finally beats for the life you’re ready to live.