Apart from my family, the closest people to me in the world are

Host: The backstage air was thick with smoke and sweat, the faint buzz of amplifiers humming like a restless heart. Empty beer bottles lined the concrete floor, catching glints of neon red from a flickering EXIT sign above the door. Posters from old tours hung crookedly on the walls, their edges curled and yellowed by time. It was long past midnight.

Jack sat on an old amplifier, guitar still slung across his shoulder, fingers idly tracing the strings. His eyes were grey, reflective — not with light, but with exhaustion. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against the wall, her arms crossed, a half-empty bottle of water dangling loosely in one hand. The murmur of laughter from the other room — the band — bled faintly through the walls.

The last echoes of the concert still haunted the air.

Jeeny: “You played beautifully tonight, Jack. But… you looked like you were somewhere else. Somewhere far away.”

Jack: (a dry smile) “Yeah. Maybe I was. Maybe I always am.”

Host: The stage lights, long since dimmed, still left a faint glow seeping through the curtain, like the last trace of fire after a storm.

Jeeny: “You said something during the interview — that your bandmates are the closest people in your life. Closer than anyone else. I’ve been thinking about that.”

Jack: “And?”

Jeeny: “And I wondered… is that closeness real, or just survival? You’ve been together for ten years — through shows, buses, fights, hangovers. But do you really know each other? Or is it just the illusion of brotherhood?”

Host: Jack looked up slowly, the low hum of a dying speaker crackling in the background.

Jack: “You think it’s an illusion because it doesn’t fit your kind of love. But when you spend a decade sweating, bleeding, and breaking with the same people… that becomes something sacred. You can’t fake that.”

Jeeny: “Sacred?” (smiles faintly) “You once told me you don’t believe in sacred things.”

Jack: “I don’t believe in saints or gods. But I believe in the guys who’ve carried my amp through the rain when I could barely stand. I believe in the ones who’ve seen me break down backstage, wiped their own eyes, and said nothing. That kind of bond — it’s not holy, but it’s real.”

Host: The rain began again, soft and uncertain, tapping against the windows like distant applause.

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s real. But maybe it’s also fragile. You build a world inside that band — like soldiers in a war. You fight side by side, so you think you’re a family. But what happens when the war ends? When the lights go out, and everyone goes home?”

Jack: “Then maybe it ends. Maybe it doesn’t. But for the time it lasts, it’s everything. That’s what Martin Kemp meant, I think — ‘Apart from my family, the closest people to me in the world are the guys in the band.’ He wasn’t talking about forever. He was talking about now.”

Jeeny: “So closeness only matters if it burns in the moment?”

Jack: “Sometimes the moment is all we get. You think the world gives you permanence? Ask any musician what happens when the curtain drops. All that’s left is the people beside you — the ones who understand the silence after the noise.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes softened. She looked around — at the instruments, the scattered setlists, the empty bottles. The scene was more battlefield than celebration.

Jeeny: “I think you mistake endurance for intimacy, Jack. I’ve seen bands who stay together for years and never look each other in the eyes. They laugh, they play, they share hotels — but they never share truth.”

Jack: “And I’ve seen people who share truth and can’t last a week. You don’t measure love or loyalty by how deeply you talk — you measure it by who shows up when everything falls apart.”

Host: The door to the dressing room creaked open for a moment. A faint chorus of laughter spilled in — the rest of the band, sharing a story, still riding the afterglow. Jack’s gaze flicked toward the sound, his expression unreadable.

Jeeny: “You talk about them like brothers. But tell me honestly — if one of them left tomorrow, would you still feel whole?”

Jack: (quietly) “No. I’d feel like someone tore a string from my chest.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s what I’m afraid of. You’ve built your life around a tribe that exists on borrowed time. One breakup, one argument, one death — and the world you’ve made disappears. Isn’t that dangerous?”

Jack: “It’s human. You can’t live guarded all the time. You find your people, and you give everything. That’s the only way to live without lying to yourself.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, drumming against the roof like a heartbeat quickening. Jack stood, stretching his shoulders, setting his guitar gently against the wall.

Jack: “You know what music really is, Jeeny? It’s trust. When you’re on stage, you can’t fake connection. If one of us falls off beat, the others catch him — not because they have to, but because they know. That kind of rhythm — it’s not friendship. It’s something deeper. It’s survival, yeah — but it’s also love.”

Jeeny: “Love without words.”

Jack: “Exactly. You see, you can talk about truth and connection all day. But when the lights are on and ten thousand people are screaming, it’s not words that keep us together. It’s instinct. It’s something primal — like the bond between wolves in a storm.”

Host: His voice was low now, steady, almost reverent. The room felt smaller, as if the walls leaned closer.

Jeeny: “And when the storm passes?”

Jack: “Then we find another one.” (He smiles faintly.) “It’s the only way to stay alive.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound poetic — but it’s also tragic. You keep chasing storms because peace feels too quiet.”

Jack: (shrugs) “Maybe peace is overrated.”

Host: Jeeny’s gaze lingered on him, long and searching. There was something unspoken between them — admiration, maybe envy.

Jeeny: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe peace is overrated. But I think someday, you’ll need something that doesn’t vanish when the lights go out.”

Jack: “Maybe. But until then, the band is my home. You think family’s about blood — but sometimes it’s about noise. The kind that drowns out everything else.”

Host: The door opened again. One of the band members poked his head in — hair damp, eyes alight.

Bandmate (off-screen): “Jack! We’re heading to the bar, man! You in?”

Jack glanced at Jeeny — the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his lips.

Jack: “Yeah… yeah, I’m coming.”

Host: Jeeny watched him go, the faint echo of his footsteps blending with the laughter down the hall. She stayed behind, staring at the empty stage, the abandoned microphone, the ghost of a song still lingering in the air.

The rain outside had eased to a drizzle. Somewhere in the distance, a car horn echoed, faint and fading.

Jeeny whispered softly, as if to herself —

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what family is — not blood, not vows, just the ones who play the same song when the world falls apart.”

Host: The lights buzzed once more before going out completely. The stage, the band, the night — all swallowed into darkness. But in that darkness, something still pulsed — the rhythm of belonging, fierce and fleeting, like a heartbeat shared among brothers in the storm.