You drift through life and let things happen to you, or go by

Host:
The sky was the color of ashes — a half-lit twilight, neither day nor night, suspended between becoming and ending. The river below the bridge moved with a kind of lazy urgency, its surface rippling under the wind that carried the smell of rain and diesel.

Jack leaned against the iron railing, a cigarette burning between his fingers, the smoke curling upward like a ghost trying to remember itself. His grey eyes were fixed on the water, though his mind was miles away — trapped in a question he’d been avoiding for years.

Jeeny stood beside him, her black hair whipped by the wind, her hands tucked in the pockets of her long coat. She watched him — not with pity, but with that quiet understanding she carried like a compass.

And somewhere in the echo of the city’s hum, Rick Warren’s words hung like a challenge neither of them could ignore:
"You drift through life and let things happen to you, or go by design and say, 'This is what I'm intended to do.'"

Jeeny: softly It’s a simple choice, isn’t it? Drift or design. Chance or intention.

Jack: exhales smoke Simple in words. Not in living.

Jeeny: smiles faintly You don’t believe in design, do you?

Jack: I believe in momentum. You start moving, and the world pulls you along. You tell yourself you’re choosing, but it’s just currents — society, circumstance, fear. You call it purpose, but it’s really drift with better branding.

Jeeny: turns toward him, her voice gentle but firm No, Jack. Purpose isn’t a current. It’s the rudder.

Jack: snorts And what if your rudder breaks halfway through? What if you don’t know where you’re going? People talk about destiny like it’s a map, but what if all we get is a fog?

Host:
A truck passed on the bridge, its headlights momentarily washing them in a harsh white glow before fading back into darkness. The river below murmured, its voice deep and endless, like the sound of time itself.

Jeeny’s eyes glimmered in the dim light, and for a heartbeat, it was as if the wind itself had stilled, waiting for her to speak.

Jeeny: Maybe fog is part of the design. Maybe clarity comes later — after you’ve had the courage to start moving.

Jack: quietly That’s what people say when they’re lost.

Jeeny: Or when they’ve finally stopped pretending to be found.

Jack: turns to her, his tone sharp So you think everyone has some grand plan written in the stars?

Jeeny: shakes her head Not written. Chosen. The stars are just reminders — not instructions.

Jack: bitterly Easy to say when you have faith.

Jeeny: softly, but unwavering Faith isn’t certainty, Jack. It’s the refusal to surrender to drift.

Host:
The wind picked up, carrying the smell of wet leaves and electricity, the kind that hints at an approaching storm. A raindrop struck the bridge railing, then another — soft, tentative, like the first notes of a melody.

Jack looked up, watching the sky darken, the first lightning stretching across the horizon like a vein of light.

Jack: When I was younger, I thought I’d design my life. You know — career, success, the usual checklist. I had it all plotted out. But somewhere along the way, I just started reacting instead of deciding. Jobs, relationships, even the cities I lived in — they all just… happened.

Jeeny: quietly That’s what drift feels like. You think you’re swimming, but you’re just floating with your eyes closed.

Jack: looks at her sharply And what if floating is the only way to survive? Not everyone gets to design their life, Jeeny. Some people just hold on and hope the tide doesn’t swallow them.

Jeeny: steps closer, her voice low but fierce Maybe. But even when you’re holding on, you can still choose what you hold. That’s design, too.

Host:
A flash of lightning split the sky, illuminating the river below in a blaze of silver fire. For that brief moment, the water seemed alive — rushing, writhing, reflecting the chaos of the heavens.

Then, just as quickly, darkness returned, and the rain began in earnest — a steady downpour, cold and cleansing.

Jack: half-laughing through the rain You sound like a preacher.

Jeeny: smiling through the storm Maybe I’m just reminding you that control isn’t a myth — it’s a muscle. You just forgot how to use it.

Jack: wipes water from his face And what if I’ve been drifting so long I don’t even know what direction looks like anymore?

Jeeny: steps closer, her voice a whisper under the thunder Then start by facing the wind. The first choice is to stop moving the wrong way.

Jack: quietly And if I don’t believe in intention?

Jeeny: meeting his eyes Then believe in change. That’s enough. Drifting is a kind of surrender, Jack. But even a surrender can become a decision if you’re awake to it.

Host:
The rain fell harder now, sheets of silver slanting through the streetlights. Their clothes clung to them, their hair slick, their faces lit by every flash of lightning that cut the sky. Yet neither of them moved.

Between them, the storm became something more than weather — it was a reckoning, a baptism, a mirror.

Jack: after a long silence Maybe I’ve been afraid of choosing, because once you choose, you can fail. But if you drift, there’s no one to blame.

Jeeny: gently That’s the illusion of safety — drifting feels harmless, but it erases you. You stop creating, you just continue.

Jack: whispers I don’t want to just continue anymore.

Jeeny: Then don’t. Design, even if the design is imperfect. Intent doesn’t mean control — it means direction.

Jack: nods slowly You make it sound like fate is something we build, not something we find.

Jeeny: smiles Exactly. Destiny isn’t written in the stars, Jack. It’s written in the decisions we make when no one’s watching.

Host:
The rain began to ease, turning from a storm to a mist, from a roar to a whisper. The city lights shimmered on the wet pavement, turning the bridge into a river of its own — a mirror of possibility.

Jack dropped the cigarette, watching it sizzle on the ground, the last ember dying in the water. He looked out at the river, then back at Jeeny, who stood with her head tilted, her eyes steady, her presence unwavering.

Jack: softly So maybe drifting brought me here — to this bridge, to this moment. Maybe that’s part of the design, too.

Jeeny: nods, her voice barely audible above the wind Maybe. But now you get to choose what happens next.

Host:
The camera would have pulled back then — the two figures, small against the vast river, reflected light flickering across their faces. The rain had almost stopped, and a thin sliver of dawn began to break through the clouds.

And as the first light touched the water, it was clear — they were no longer just drifting.

For the first time, they were designing their direction.

Fade out.