You'd die very sad if you tried to make everyone in the world

Host:
The night was neon and noise, dripping with the pulse of the city—car lights flickering, sirens crying, and the muffled bass of some rooftop party that didn’t know when to stop. Rain had just passed through, leaving puddles that reflected the billboards, fractured like dreams in technicolor.

Inside a narrow alley café, the air was thick with espresso, wet leather, and the quiet exhaustion of people trying not to be alone. Jack sat in a booth near the back, hood up, cigarette burning between two fingers he hadn’t realized were trembling. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her coffee, not drinking it, just watching the smoke curl upward, slow and hypnotic.

The quote was written on the corner of a napkin, dark ink bleeding slightly from the damp:

“You’d die very sad if you tried to make everyone in the world happy, you know what I mean? You can’t; no one can.” – G-Eazy

Jeeny:
(reading the napkin aloud, softly)
“You’d die very sad if you tried to make everyone happy.”
(pauses)
He’s right. That’s the tragedy of empathy, isn’t it? When your heart’s too big for the body carrying it.

Jack:
(half-smiles, low and dry)
Or maybe it’s just the tragedy of ego. You think you’re responsible for everyone’s smile, you’re doomed from the start.

Host:
The rain began again, just lightly, tapping against the window, the drops catching the orange streetlight like falling coins. The city outside glowed—alive, indifferent.

Jeeny:
I don’t think it’s ego. I think it’s hunger. The kind that comes from never feeling enough unless someone else tells you you are.

Jack:
(leans back, exhales smoke through his nose)
You’re describing half the planet.

Jeeny:
And the other half’s pretending they don’t care.

Jack:
(smirks)
That’s the other tragedy—you either care too much or not at all. There’s no safe middle.

Host:
She looked at him then, her eyes dark and soft, the kind of gaze that seemed to hold light even when the world didn’t. The cigarette smoke rose between them, curling like unspoken thoughts.

Jeeny:
But isn’t it beautiful, in a way? The idea that someone still wants to make everyone happy, even knowing it’ll break them?

Jack:
Beautiful? Maybe. But also stupid. You spend your life pouring water into other people’s cups, and one day you look down—and yours is dry.

Jeeny:
(smiling faintly)
Maybe that’s why some people find joy in the pouring, not the drinking.

Jack:
That’s just another word for martyrdom.

Jeeny:
(shrugs)
Or love.

Host:
A long silence followed. The sound of rain filled it, each drop like a tiny truth. The neon lights from outside blinked through the window, flashing across their faces—blue, red, gold—like shifting moods neither of them could name.

Jack:
You think G-Eazy meant that literally? That trying to please people would kill you?

Jeeny:
Yes. Not in body—in spirit. Because every time you try to be what someone else needs, you cut off a piece of who you are. Eventually, there’s nothing left to give.

Jack:
(quietly)
And nothing left to be.

Jeeny:
(nodding)
Exactly.

Host:
Her words landed like soft stones—heavy, but without cruelty. Outside, the rain thickened, turning the glass into a blurred mirror, their reflections melting together, indistinguishable for a moment.

Jack:
I’ve spent years trying to keep people happy. Friends, partners, bosses. It’s like a full-time job with no paycheck and no vacation.

Jeeny:
And no gratitude.

Jack:
(chuckling bitterly)
That too. You bend yourself into shapes to fit their comfort, and they still find corners to complain about.

Jeeny:
Because happiness isn’t something you can hand to someone else. It’s a language you can’t translate for them.

Jack:
(looking at her)
And you—you stopped trying to translate?

Jeeny:
(after a pause)
I stopped apologizing for speaking my own dialect.

Host:
A faint smile flickered across her lips, though her eyes carried something deeper—something like peace that had been fought for, not gifted.

Jack:
You make it sound easy.

Jeeny:
It’s not. It’s like detoxing from approval. The withdrawal lasts years.

Jack:
(grinning faintly)
You always did have a poetic way of describing pain.

Jeeny:
And you always had a cynical way of hiding yours.

Host:
The cigarette burned out, leaving a faint trail of smoke curling into the air, dissolving as quietly as regret. The clock above the counter ticked softly, a slow reminder that even moments like this—fragile, honest, fleeting—keep moving.

Jack:
You know what’s funny? The world loves people who please it. Until they stop. Then it calls them selfish.

Jeeny:
(nodding)
That’s because selflessness is only admired when it’s convenient for everyone else.

Jack:
So what do we do? Just… stop caring?

Jeeny:
No. We care differently. We stop trying to save people from their own sadness. We offer kindness, not rescue.

Jack:
(quietly)
There’s a difference.

Jeeny:
A big one. One keeps you alive. The other eats you alive.

Host:
The rain softened again, then stopped altogether, leaving behind that gentle post-storm silence—clean, clear, raw. The city lights shimmered on the wet pavement, each reflection trembling slightly, like they, too, were learning how to stay still.

Jack:
You think it’s possible to really stop caring what people think?

Jeeny:
Not entirely. But you can learn to stop depending on it. You can learn that peace doesn’t come from being loved—it comes from loving who you are when no one’s watching.

Jack:
(smiles slowly, eyes softening)
You’d make a terrible pop star, you know that?

Jeeny:
(laughs)
Why?

Jack:
You’d stop mid-concert and tell the crowd they’re responsible for their own happiness.

Jeeny:
(grinning)
Maybe that’s the concert we need.

Host:
They laughed—softly, genuinely—the kind of laugh that comes not from joy, but from recognition. The neon lights blinked again, flashing across their faces like a camera capturing something real.

Jack:
So, trying to make everyone happy kills you. What keeps you alive, then?

Jeeny:
Knowing you can’t.

Jack:
(quietly, almost to himself)
That’s freedom, isn’t it?

Jeeny:
It’s peace. And peace is better than approval.

Host:
The rain started again, barely a whisper this time, soft enough to sound like a lullaby. Jack leaned his head back against the booth, eyes closed, a small, genuine smile finding him at last.

Jeeny watched him for a moment, then looked toward the window, where the city’s reflection glowed like a thousand tiny fires—burning, fading, living anyway.

And in that dim café, under the hum of rain and the glow of the street outside, two people understood what G-Eazy meant:

that you can’t save the world,
but you can save yourself from trying—
and that sometimes,
refusing to be everyone’s happiness
is the first real act of love.