Always write angry letters to your enemies. Never mail them.

Host: The city slept under a thin, cold moon, its streets glimmering with the wet shine of rain. In a small, dimly lit apartment, the air was thick with the smell of paper, coffee, and tension. A lamp burned on a cluttered desk, its light casting long shadows on the walls covered with notes, scribbles, and crumpled drafts.

Jack sat at the desk, his shirt sleeves rolled up, pen pressed hard against paper, writing with that tight, furious energy of someone trying not to shout. The pen scratched like a blade on the page.

Jeeny stood by the window, watching the rain slide down the glass, her reflection trembling in it like a ghost of her own thoughts.

Jeeny: “You’re doing it again, aren’t you?”

Jack: “Doing what?”

Jeeny: “Writing another one of your angry letters.”

Host: Jack didn’t look up. His jaw tightened, his hand moved faster, ink smearing on the page.

Jack: “James Fallows said, ‘Always write angry letters to your enemies. Never mail them.’ I’m doing the first part.”

Jeeny: “And do you actually follow the second?”

Jack: “Most of the time.”

Jeeny: “Most of the time.”

Host: Her voice carried a soft amusement, but also a sadness. The lamp’s light caught her face, and for a moment, she looked like someone trying to save another from himself.

Jeeny: “You really think it helps? Writing out the anger, instead of speaking it?”

Jack: “It’s either that or say something I’ll regret. At least paper doesn’t talk back.”

Jeeny: “Paper also doesn’t forgive.”

Jack: “Neither do people.”

Host: Jeeny walked toward the desk, her steps slow, measured, like she was crossing a field of memories. She glanced at the letters, their edges crumpled, words blotted from ink and emotion.

Jeeny: “Who’s this one for?”

Jack: “Does it matter? Politicians. Bosses. Old friends. The ghosts of everyone who disappointed me.”

Jeeny: “Then you must have a library by now.”

Host: Jack laughed, a short, dry sound, like flint striking steel.

Jack: “Yeah. Shelf of unposted regrets.”

Jeeny: “That’s not a shelf, Jack. That’s a graveyard.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked, each second a pulse in the silence. Outside, a car splashed through a puddle, the sound like a wave breaking and fading again.

Jack: “You think I should send them, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “No. But I think you should ask yourself why you keep writing them.”

Jack: “Because people are infuriating.”

Jeeny: “No. Because you still care.”

Jack: “That’s nonsense.”

Jeeny: “Is it? You don’t write angry letters to people who don’t matter. You only write them to those who’ve touched something deeper — pride, memory, love. Maybe anger is just the last form of attention.”

Host: Jack’s pen froze. He stared at the ink, bleeding slightly at the edge of the word “betrayal.” His grey eyes softened, just for a moment, before the hardness returned.

Jack: “You make anger sound poetic. It’s not. It’s a mess. It’s survival.”

Jeeny: “It can be both. Anger is a kind of truth — raw, unpolished. Morrison worked through hers. Seneca warned against drowning in it. Fallows? He found the middle — use it, don’t unleash it. That’s wisdom, Jack. Discipline in emotion.”

Jack: “Discipline doesn’t come naturally to people like me.”

Jeeny: “Then write. Just don’t mail.”

Host: Jack leaned back in his chair, rubbing his forehead. The lamp’s light flickered, casting shadows that seemed to move like restless thoughts.

Jack: “You know, sometimes I think I’d rather send one — just once. Let someone feel what I felt. Why should I carry all this poison alone?”

Jeeny: “Because once it leaves your hand, it owns you.”

Jack: “You think silence is better?”

Jeeny: “Not silence — restraint. There’s a difference. Silence is fear. Restraint is power.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, and for a moment, the room felt like a courtroom — her calm, his defense, the truth balancing somewhere between.

Jack: “And what if the anger never leaves?”

Jeeny: “It will. Once you’ve written it enough times, it bleeds itself dry.”

Jack: “You sound like you’ve done it.”

Jeeny: “I have.”

Host: Her voice dropped, quiet, weighted with memory.

Jeeny: “I wrote one once. After my father died. I blamed him for everything — for being gone, for being cruel, for never listening. I filled ten pages with words I’d never have said out loud.”

Jack: “And did it help?”

Jeeny: “No. But it changed something. I realized the letter wasn’t to him. It was to the part of me that couldn’t forgive.”

Host: The lamp buzzed softly, a thin hum under the stillness.

Jack: “So you burned it, I guess?”

Jeeny: “No. I kept it. Some letters shouldn’t be sent, but they shouldn’t be destroyed either. They remind us of who we were — and what we survived.”

Host: A pause. The rain slowed to a drizzle, tapping like fingers on the windowpane. Jack stood, walked to the window, and stared out at the city — its lights reflected in the puddles like small, shattered truths.

Jack: “You know what the irony is? Every time I finish one of these letters, I feel calm. Like the act of writing is revenge enough.”

Jeeny: “That’s because it is. The mind doesn’t need delivery — just release.”

Jack: “So the letter’s the scream that no one hears.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The scream you contain so you don’t destroy what’s left standing.”

Host: Jack turned, his expression softened, the anger fading into something weary, almost tender.

Jack: “Maybe Fallows was smarter than I gave him credit for. Write angry. But never let the world see your first draft.”

Jeeny: “That’s what wisdom is — editing your rage before it edits your life.”

Host: The lamp dimmed, its light waning as the night grew still. Jeeny picked up one of the letters, folded, creased, its ink smudged by time. She set it back down, careful, gentle — like placing a flower on a grave.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack… some people send their letters anyway. That’s how wars start.”

Jack: “And revolutions.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But revolutions don’t end where they begin. Sometimes restraint is the greater courage.”

Jack: “So I write to save myself.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every unsent letter is a piece of peace you keep.”

Host: The rain stopped completely now. The city fell into a strange, beautiful quiet. The lamp flickered once more, then settled, its light steady, warm.

Jack reached for the fresh page, flipped it over, and began to write again — slower this time, softer, as if each word was a weight he was finally lifting.

Jeeny watched, her hands folded, her eyes bright with that tired, knowing sadness that comes only from understanding another person’s storm.

Host: Outside, the moonlight returned, falling on the desk, on the letters, on Jack’s bent figure, writing, breathing, healing in silence.

And as the night deepened, the words grew less angry, more honest — until the letters were no longer for his enemies, but for the part of himself still learning not to send them.