You might not trust me. Please give me a chance and time. I will

Host: The rain had just stopped, leaving the city streets glistening under the pale amber of streetlights. A small café, half-hidden between two aged buildings, hummed quietly with the sound of a distant radio and the aroma of brewed coffee. Steam curled from mugs like the last breath of an old dream. Jack sat by the window, his coat damp, his eyes sharp and tired, watching people pass with the kind of suspicion born from too many broken promises. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her coffee, fingers trembling slightly, as if stirring something deeper — her faith.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack… I read something today. Yingluck Shinawatra once said, ‘You might not trust me. Please give me a chance and time. I will prove myself for all of you.’ It stayed with me.”

Jack: (smirks, his voice low and rough) “That kind of thing always sounds good under the right lighting. But it’s the oldest trick in the book, Jeeny — the ‘trust me’ speech. The world runs on proof, not promises.”

Host: A car horn echoed outside. The reflection of moving headlights danced across their faces, briefly lighting the uncertainty between them.

Jeeny: “You don’t believe people can change? That someone can truly earn trust — if given time?”

Jack: “I believe people say they’ll change. Then they don’t. History’s full of that. Leaders, lovers, friends — they all start with good intentions. Then reality gets in the way.”

Jeeny: “Reality doesn’t destroy trust, Jack. Fear does. People are afraid to wait, afraid to believe. When Yingluck said those words, she was speaking to a country divided — asking not for worship, but for time. Isn’t that what we all deserve? Time to prove who we are?”

Host: The rain began to drizzle again, lightly, as if the sky itself was listening. A bus passed, throwing a faint mist against the window. Jack’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing as he watched the blur of the city.

Jack: “Deserve? No one deserves trust by default. You earn it before asking for it. That’s the difference between faith and foolishness.”

Jeeny: (leans forward, voice soft but firm) “Then tell me, Jack — how do you earn trust without being given the chance to? You can’t prove yourself in a vacuum. Sometimes trust is the first step, not the reward.”

Host: Jack exhaled sharply, the smoke from his breath fogging the glass for a moment before it vanished. His reflection, hard and lined, stared back at him — the kind of face that had seen too many betrayals and learned to call it wisdom.

Jack: “That’s the kind of idealism that gets people hurt. Look at history. Neville Chamberlain trusted Hitler’s word. Blind faith in ‘give me time and I’ll prove myself.’ You know what that trust cost the world? Millions of lives. Trust isn’t noble — it’s dangerous.”

Jeeny: (her eyes glisten, but her voice steadies) “And yet without it, there would be no world left to save. Think of Nelson Mandela — he spent 27 years in prison, and when he came out, he didn’t demand revenge. He asked for trust. For time. And he proved himself, Jack — to everyone. Isn’t that the same principle Yingluck meant? Not blind belief, but patient faith?”

Host: The café light flickered, casting a soft golden hue over their faces — the contrast between steel and warmth, between a man who had stopped believing, and a woman who still did.

Jack: “Mandela was an exception. For every one of him, there are a hundred who fail. You talk about trust like it’s some sacred flame. But what if it burns the wrong person’s hands?”

Jeeny: “Then the lesson is not to stop lighting fires, but to choose more wisely who you hand the match to.”

Host: Jack looked up, his eyes narrowing, but a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth — the kind of smile that knows it’s losing ground but refuses to admit defeat.

Jack: “You always have a poetic answer for everything.”

Jeeny: “Because truth often hides in poetry, Jack. It’s the only way the heart can speak when the mind has already given up.”

Host: A moment of silence settled between them. The rain had softened, turning to a gentle mist. Outside, the city was a blur of reflected lights and moving shadows. The world, for that instant, felt both vast and intimate.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right about one thing — the mind gives up faster than the heart. I’ve seen people make promises they couldn’t keep. And each time, I told myself I’d stop trusting. But somehow, I still end up hoping someone might actually mean it.”

Jeeny: “That’s because hope and trust aren’t enemies, Jack. They’re twins born from the same ache — the ache to believe that people can be more than their mistakes.”

Host: Jack ran a hand through his hair, leaning back, his eyes drifting toward the window, where the faint outline of the moon peeked through the clouds.

Jack: “You think everyone deserves a second chance?”

Jeeny: “Not everyone. But everyone deserves the possibility of one.”

Jack: “And what if they fail again?”

Jeeny: “Then we learn. But we don’t lose ourselves by refusing to trust at all.”

Host: The radio crackled faintly, a melancholic tune filling the air, soft as memory. Jack watched Jeeny for a long moment, the way her eyes held both pain and faith, a contradiction he couldn’t quite dismiss.

Jack: “You make it sound easy. But trust is a currency that gets devalued fast. Once it’s spent, it’s gone.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But it’s also renewable — like the seasons. You lose it, it hurts, but the heart grows it back, if you let it.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, fragile and tender. The rain had stopped completely now, and a thin silver beam of moonlight slipped through the window, falling across the table, illuminating their untouched cups of coffee — now cold, but still waiting.

Jack: (quietly) “So, you’d have trusted Yingluck then? Believed she could prove herself?”

Jeeny: “I would have listened. Because no one changes the world in one speech. But the act of asking for trust — humbly — that’s a start. You can’t lead people without showing them your humanity first.”

Jack: “And you think the world rewards humility?”

Jeeny: “Not always. But it remembers it. And sometimes, that’s enough.”

Host: Jack’s hand rested on the table, close to hers. His eyes softened, the steel in them giving way to something unspoken — perhaps the memory of his own mistakes, the times he wished someone had trusted him long enough to prove he was better.

Jack: “Maybe trust isn’t about others after all. Maybe it’s about whether we still believe we can be trusted.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Exactly. The quote wasn’t just a plea to others — it was a declaration of intent. I will prove myself. That’s not weakness, Jack. That’s courage.”

Host: The clock ticked, steady as a heartbeat. Outside, the clouds parted, and the moonlight spilled across the street, washing everything in a quiet silver calm. The world, for that one fleeting moment, seemed to forgive itself.

Jack: “Alright, Jeeny. Suppose someone asked me to trust them again. Suppose they said, ‘Give me time.’ Maybe… I’d listen. But I’d still keep one eye open.”

Jeeny: “Then you’ve already begun to trust — because you’re willing to risk again.”

Host: The light from the streetlamp flickered, reflecting off their faces — one shadowed, one bright — as if the universe itself was balancing them. Outside, the rainwater on the street glimmered like a thousand tiny mirrors, each one reflecting a different truth.

Jack: (quietly) “You always win these arguments, don’t you?”

Jeeny: (laughs softly) “No. I just remind you that your heart still argues back.”

Host: They sat in silence, the city hum now a distant lullaby. The moonlight rested between them, a symbol of trust reborn — fragile, luminous, and real. And somewhere in the soft pulse of that moment, both Jack and Jeeny understood that trust — like the rain — must first fall, before it can make anything grow.