Comedy helped me out in my teenage years. It saw me through

Host: The rain had stopped, but the streets still glistened, shimmering beneath the amber haze of the city lights. The air was cool, the kind that smelled faintly of wet asphalt and memory. Inside the small comedy club, the stage was empty now — only a single microphone, still buzzing faintly with the echo of laughter that had just ended.

Jack and Jeeny sat at a corner table, two half-empty glasses between them, the remnants of a night trying to forget itself. The room still vibrated with the ghosts of jokes — the way they do after good laughter, when truth has been spoken through absurdity.

Jeeny: “Rhys Darby once said, ‘Comedy helped me out in my teenage years. It saw me through puberty and helped me to deal with dating.’ I think that’s beautiful.”

Jack: “Beautiful? It’s funny — and probably true. Comedy’s the only thing that keeps most people from collapsing under the weight of their own awkwardness.”

Host: Jack smiled, a half-crooked grin, the kind that betrayed his tiredness and wit at the same time. His grey eyes flickered with something between mockery and melancholy.

Jeeny: “You don’t think he meant it deeper than that?”

Jack: “Deeper? Maybe. But let’s not romanticize every joke, Jeeny. Sometimes laughter’s just a survival tactic. You laugh because crying feels like surrender.”

Jeeny: “But that’s exactly why it’s deep. Laughter isn’t denial — it’s alchemy. It turns pain into something that doesn’t destroy you. When Rhys Darby said comedy helped him, he wasn’t just talking about being funny — he meant it helped him be human.”

Host: Jeeny leaned forward, her eyes glimmering under the dim light, the way candles catch on water. Jack watched her, the corner of his mouth lifting again.

Jack: “You always find poetry in pain. You ever think maybe humor’s just armor? That the funny kid is usually the one who’s hurting the most?”

Jeeny: “Of course. But isn’t armor still protection? Some people hide behind anger, others behind silence — at least humor lets light through. It lets people connect.”

Jack: “Connect? You mean perform. Make people like you. Keep them laughing so they don’t look too closely. I used to do that.”

Host: His voice lowered, rough now, the gravel in it softened by something real. The club had gone almost silent, the bartender wiping glasses behind the counter, pretending not to listen.

Jeeny: “You were the class clown, weren’t you?”

Jack: “The cynical version, yeah. The kind who made jokes about everyone else before they could make them about me. It worked — for a while. I was the ‘funny guy.’ Everyone liked me, no one knew me.”

Jeeny: “That’s the tragedy of most comedians, isn’t it? They make the world laugh to avoid hearing the silence inside themselves.”

Host: Jeeny’s words hung, gentle yet cutting, like raindrops on glass. Jack shifted, his hand gripping the edge of the table, his eyes distant — as if watching an old memory play out in a room only he could see.

Jack: “There was this girl once. Back in school. I made her laugh every day. Thought that meant something. Then one day, she told me — ‘You’re hilarious, Jack. But you don’t have to hide behind it all the time.’ I didn’t know what to say. I laughed again. That was the last time I saw her.”

Jeeny: “Did you love her?”

Jack: “No. But I could’ve, if I’d let myself. But see — that’s what humor does. It saves you, but it also isolates you. People love the joke, not the person telling it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because you never let them. Comedy can’t just be defense, Jack. It can also be revelation. Think of Robin Williams — he used laughter to reveal the deepest parts of humanity. His pain wasn’t his weakness; it was his bridge.”

Host: A spotlight from the stage still glowed, dust floating through it like tiny ghosts of applause. The microphone stood there — silent, waiting — like an altar to the fragile courage of those who make us laugh.

Jack: “And it killed him in the end.”

Jeeny: “No. The pain killed him. But the laughter — that’s what kept him alive for so long. It’s what kept millions alive. That’s what Rhys Darby meant. Comedy isn’t about ignoring pain; it’s about giving it shape. Turning chaos into rhythm.”

Jack: “You talk like it’s holy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Every time someone laughs at their own disaster, they’re refusing to be defeated by it.”

Host: Jack looked down, rolling the glass between his hands, the ice clinking softly — a small, lonely sound in the hollow quiet of the room.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? When you’re funny long enough, people stop asking if you’re okay. They assume laughter means happiness. But sometimes it’s just noise to drown out the silence.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe what we need isn’t less laughter — but more honesty inside it. Comedy that tells the truth without apology. The kind that says, ‘I’m broken, but I’m still here.’”

Jack: “You think people want truth? They want comfort. They want the punchline without the wound.”

Jeeny: “Not always. Sometimes the wound is the punchline. That’s why people like Rhys Darby matter. He doesn’t mock life — he honors it by laughing through it.”

Host: The lights on stage dimmed even more, until only a thin glow remained — like a heartbeat still beating in the dark. Jack sighed, a sound somewhere between resignation and relief.

Jack: “You know, maybe that’s why I can’t stop making jokes. It’s not that I’m afraid of pain — it’s that I’m afraid of what I’ll sound like without laughter.”

Jeeny: “Then don’t stop laughing, Jack. Just learn to laugh with yourself, not at yourself. There’s a difference.”

Host: She reached across the table, her hand resting lightly on his. For a moment, all the noise, the lights, the history — it all faded. There was only the touch, the quiet, and the faint buzz of a microphone that once carried truth disguised as laughter.

Jack: “You think humor really saves us?”

Jeeny: “No. But it reminds us we’re still worth saving.”

Host: Outside, the moonlight broke through the clouds, spilling across the wet pavement, reflecting off the club’s sign that still blinked: Open Mic Night.

Jack stood, looking at the stage, the microphone still waiting. He smiled, the kind of smile that’s half a scar and half a prayer.

Jack: “Maybe it’s time to tell the truth — but make it funny.”

Jeeny: “That’s the best kind of truth.”

Host: And as Jack walked toward the stage, his shadow stretched, merging with the light, the silence of the room leaned forward, listening.

Because somewhere between pain and punchline,
between awkwardness and acceptance,
a boy who once hid behind jokes
was finally learning to speak.

And for the first time in years,
his laughter didn’t sound like defense —
it sounded like freedom.