Being irrational and out of control is what happens in real life.

Host: The bar was dim — not the glamorous kind, but the kind where dreams and arguments dissolve into the same whiskey glass. A single lightbulb swung gently above the counter, its flicker carving shadows on bricks stained with time. Outside, the rain fell like static, like memory.

The clock above the shelves said 1:17 a.m.
Jack sat slouched in a cracked leather booth, his tie undone, his knuckles still slightly red. Jeeny sat across from him, her coat damp, her hair sticking to her face, her eyes alive with the glimmer of something raw — part fear, part truth, part fury.

Jeeny: “Margot Robbie once said, ‘Being irrational and out of control is what happens in real life. Not cautiously choreographing your anger or your emotions — losing yourself in them is what happens in real life.’”

Jack: dryly “Guess she’s never seen me at work. I lose control for a living.”

Jeeny: “You call that control? Punching a wall because you couldn’t win an argument?”

Jack: snorts “Better than bottling it up till it eats me alive. At least the wall doesn’t talk back.”

Jeeny: “No, it just bleeds drywall instead of truth.”

Host: Her voice was soft but it cut deep, like a knife wrapped in silk. The bartender turned up the radio to drown them out, the low hum of jazz sliding through the air like smoke.

Jeeny took a sip of her drink. Jack stared at his reflection in the glass — distorted, trembling, unfinished.

Jack: “You ever notice how everyone tells you to stay calm? ‘Keep it together,’ ‘think rationally,’ ‘don’t lose your temper.’ It’s like feeling something too deeply is a goddamn crime.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because it’s easier to live in a world where nobody explodes. Where everyone smiles, apologizes, and dies quietly.”

Jack: “Yeah, well, I’m done being quiet.”

Jeeny: “You mistake noise for honesty.”

Jack: “And you mistake repression for wisdom.”

Host: A glass fell somewhere behind the counter and shattered — a perfect metaphor, too loud to ignore. Jack flinched, Jeeny didn’t. The tension between them was alive — a living, breathing thing with claws and heartbeat.

Jeeny: “You think losing control makes you real. But you know what it really makes you?”

Jack: “Human.”

Jeeny: “No. It makes you a storm without direction. And storms destroy what they touch.”

Jack: leaning forward, eyes sharp “Then maybe destruction’s the only honest thing left in this world.”

Jeeny: “Don’t flatter yourself. Anger isn’t truth, Jack — it’s pain trying to be loud.”

Jack: “And what are you? Serenity in a world built on fire?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m the part that still believes fire can give warmth before it burns everything down.”

Host: The lightbulb flickered again, throwing her shadow across the table — long, stretched, trembling. Jack looked at her, really looked: the tremor in her hands, the faint bruise under her sleeve. Real life wasn’t calm. It was messy. It was her.

Jack: quietly “You ever been so angry you forgot who you were?”

Jeeny: “Yes. And so sad I couldn’t remember how to breathe.”

Jack: “And what did you do?”

Jeeny: “I screamed. Into a pillow. Into a void. Into someone who couldn’t love me back. And then I lived anyway.”

Jack: smiles faintly “That’s losing control too, you know.”

Jeeny: “No. That’s surviving it.”

Host: The rain grew louder, drumming on the window, washing the city in sound. Jack’s cigarette burned down to its filter. He crushed it against the table’s metal edge, the ash scattering like small grey confessions.

Jack: “When I was younger, I thought being in control meant being strong. Keeping the emotion off your face, never showing weakness. My father was like that — a walking glacier. He said, ‘Don’t cry. Don’t rage. Don’t show them they got to you.’”

Jeeny: “And did it work?”

Jack: “It turned him into a ghost long before he died.”

Jeeny: “So you decided to be his opposite.”

Jack: nods slowly “I figured if I burn hot enough, I’ll never freeze like him.”

Jeeny: “And now you’re learning that fire leaves ashes, too.”

Jack: “Yeah.” pauses “But at least ashes prove something existed.”

Jeeny: softly “So does silence.”

Host: For a long moment, neither spoke. The air between them felt fragile — like glass filled with emotion one wrong word could shatter. Jeeny traced the rim of her glass with her finger; Jack watched her hand like it was a metronome keeping time to their unspoken pain.

Jeeny: “I think Margot was right — about being irrational, I mean. Real life doesn’t move in straight lines. It stumbles, it screams, it loves too much, and then it breaks. We spend our lives pretending we’re composed while everything inside us is chaos.”

Jack: “You say that like chaos is a virtue.”

Jeeny: “It’s not a virtue. It’s a mirror. It shows you who you are when all the choreography falls apart.”

Jack: “And what if I don’t like who I see?”

Jeeny: “Then scream louder. Until the noise turns into something new.”

Host: The rain softened. Outside, a taxi splashed through a puddle, its