You're alone in your ideas, because you're the only one who knows

Host: The evening air hung heavy with rain and neon. The city breathed below — a thousand windows glowing like scattered embers, their light flickering through the mist. In a small, dim rooftop bar, music hummed low beneath the buzz of conversation. Jack sat near the window, a half-empty glass of whiskey in his hand, his grey eyes fixed on the rain-streaked glass. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her coffee, the steam rising in soft ribbons, her fingers resting lightly on the rim of the cup.

Host: The moment felt still, like a pause before a storm — both souls balanced on the edge of something unsaid.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack,” she began, her voice gentle, yet firm, “Bethenny Frankel once said, ‘You’re alone in your ideas, because you’re the only one who knows what’s possible.’ I’ve been thinking about that.”

Jack: (He snorted softly.) “Alone in your ideas? Sounds like a comforting way to dress up isolation. You’re not alone because you’re brilliant, Jeeny — you’re alone because nobody cares to listen.”

Host: The rain beat harder against the glass, like nervous fingers tapping on a door that wouldn’t open.

Jeeny: “That’s not what it means,” she said, leaning forward, her eyes bright. “It means the world can’t see what you see — not yet. Every visionary has to walk that path of loneliness before others catch up. Think of Tesla, or Van Gogh. They lived in the shadows of their own possibilities.”

Jack: “And both died broke, forgotten, and mad. Is that the glory you’re celebrating? Loneliness isn’t romantic, Jeeny. It’s a warning.”

Host: A flash of lightning split the sky, casting their faces in a momentary glow — one of doubt, the other of defiance.

Jeeny: “You’re missing the point, Jack. It’s not about the pain — it’s about the faith to keep believing when no one else can. The world only changes because someone once refused to listen to reason.”

Jack: “Faith?” he echoed, his voice rough. “Faith builds cathedrals and starts wars. You praise the loneliness of visionaries, but for every Einstein, there’s a thousand who died thinking they were special. The difference isn’t faith, it’s chance.”

Host: Thunder rolled in the distance, swallowing their silence. Jack drummed his fingers on the table, his jaw tight, as if trying to convince himself that logic was a shield strong enough to guard him from wonder.

Jeeny: “You talk about chance as if it decides everything. But maybe it’s the courage to stand in your own truth that makes the difference. Every invention, every art, every revolution started with one person who refused to doubt what they felt was possible.”

Jack: “Feelings don’t build bridges, Jeeny. Calculations do. Ideas are only as real as the results they create.”

Jeeny: “Then why do you write your songs, Jack?” she asked suddenly, her voice soft, cutting through the smoke. “You’ve filled notebooks with lyrics no one will ever hear. You say you’re a realist, but that’s a dreamer’s crime.”

Host: The words hung between them, heavier than silence. Jack’s hand stilled, his eyes flickering — a betrayal of emotion he tried to bury.

Jack: “I write because it keeps me from breaking. That’s not belief, it’s maintenance.”

Jeeny: “But it is belief, Jack. You’re creating something from nothing — that’s the definition of faith. You’re alone in your ideas, because you’re the only one who knows they might work. Isn’t that what Frankel meant?”

Host: The bar fell into quieter rhythms; the crowd thinned, the bartender wiping down the counter with slow, circular motions. The rain softened, turning into a mist, whispering against the window.

Jack: “I think it’s dangerous, Jeeny — this glorification of solitude. It feeds the illusion that being alone makes you right. It breeds arrogance. Look at Steve Jobs — brilliant, yes, but he burned people to prove his vision. He believed too much in what only he could see.”

Jeeny: “And yet without that burning, we wouldn’t have the world we live in now. Progress is fire, Jack. It destroys as much as it creates.”

Jack: “That’s the problem. You romanticize the flame, but forget the ashes.”

Jeeny: “And you fear the flame, so you sit in the dark.”

Host: A long pause followed, both of them staring at the rain, their reflections blurring in the glass — two ghosts of opposite worlds, meeting in the middle of a storm.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right, Jeeny,” he said, after a moment. “Maybe the truth is that possibility always starts as madness. But there’s a thin line between vision and delusion.”

Jeeny: “And that line is drawn by the future. No one knows where it is until it’s too late.”

Host: A sirens’ wail rose from the street below — a lonely sound, fading into the night. Jack watched it disappear, his expression softening, tired, but alive.

Jack: “You know,” he murmured, “when I was younger, I used to believe I’d change the world. Now I’m just trying to survive it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s how change begins — by surviving what you dreamed of. You don’t have to be understood right now, Jack. You just have to see what’s possible.”

Host: The neon light shifted, painting their faces in pale pink and blue. The rain had stopped; the city glistened like a mirror, reflecting a thousand tiny possibilities.

Jack: “You really believe one idea can change the world, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “No,” she said, smiling faintly. “But I believe it can change one person — and sometimes, that’s enough.”

Host: Jack’s eyes met hers — the storm inside him settling, quietly, like dust after a battle. He nodded, a small, tired, but genuine gesture.

Jack: “Maybe being alone in your ideas isn’t a curse, then. Maybe it’s just the price of seeing what others can’t — yet.”

Host: Jeeny smiled, her fingers brushing the table, leaving a trail of light reflected from the street below. The music rose — a slow, melancholic piano melody — and the camera of the world pulled back, leaving them framed in a window of soft light, two silhouettes against the fading storm.

Host: The night breathed again — alive, silent, possible.