Cyndi Lauper's 'Time After Time' was a perfect song. It was so

Host: The rain had been falling for hours, each drop like a melancholy note against the windowpane. The city outside was muted, its lights blurred through the glass — a watercolor of loneliness. Inside a small record store, time seemed to pause. The air was thick with the scent of old vinyl, dust, and memory.

Jack stood by the turntable, a vinyl record spinning under the soft yellow glow of a desk lamp. The needle crackled, and then — Cyndi Lauper’s voice floated through the air:
“If you’re lost, you can look and you will find me — time after time…”

Jeeny entered quietly, her umbrella dripping, her eyes glistening with something that wasn’t just rain.

Jeeny: “Lea Thompson once said, ‘Cyndi Lauper’s Time After Time was a perfect song. It was so beautiful and so heartfelt. Her vocals were so amazing. And for me, that was a song I went to when I was feeling sad and wanted to feel even sadder.’”

Jack: half-smiling, without looking up “Sounds about right. Some people chase happiness; others swim in sorrow like it’s home.”

Jeeny: “Maybe sorrow is home sometimes. There’s something pure about letting yourself feel completely. That song — it doesn’t try to cheer you up. It just sits with you, quietly, until you can breathe again.”

Jack: “Or it keeps you drowning. Music like that — it can trap you in nostalgia. You play it once, and suddenly you’re back in every failure, every goodbye. It’s emotional quicksand.”

Host: The record spun, the crackles between notes like ghosts whispering through time. The light flickered, throwing shadows across Jack’s face — hard lines softened by the rhythm of Lauper’s voice. Jeeny walked closer, her fingers brushing the shelves, tracing the edges of forgotten albums.

Jeeny: “You say that like feeling too much is dangerous.”

Jack: “It is. You can’t keep opening old wounds and call it therapy. People romanticize sadness because it feels honest. But after a while, it’s just self-inflicted nostalgia.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not nostalgia. Maybe it’s recognition. When I listen to Time After Time, it’s like she’s saying, I see you. There’s comfort in knowing someone else hurt the same way you do.”

Jack: “Comfort or validation? There’s a difference. Comfort helps you heal. Validation tells you it’s okay to stay broken.”

Host: The rain intensified, tapping like tiny drums on the roof. The store lights dimmed, leaving only the turntable glow — a small halo around two people caught between pain and philosophy.

Jeeny: “You always dissect everything until it stops feeling real. Why can’t something just be beautiful because it hurts?”

Jack: “Because beauty shouldn’t depend on pain. That’s a dangerous bargain — to only feel alive when you’re bleeding.”

Jeeny: “But that’s what makes us human. We bleed through art. Lauper didn’t write Time After Time to fix anyone; she wrote it to share the ache. And sometimes, sharing it is what saves us.”

Jack: “Saved by sadness. You realize how contradictory that sounds?”

Jeeny: “Contradictions are what make art timeless, Jack. Think about Van Gogh. His pain painted the stars. Without sadness, Starry Night would just be another blue sky.”

Host: Jack turned, finally meeting her gaze, his eyes like cold steel, softened by something deep and unspoken. The music swelled behind them — Lauper’s voice trembling, pure, unapologetic.

Jack: “You think sadness makes art pure?”

Jeeny: “I think it makes it honest. When she sings ‘I’ll be waiting — time after time,’ you can hear her longing. You can feel the exhaustion of hope. That’s why it’s perfect. Because it doesn’t promise anything — it just stays.”

Jack: “But doesn’t that make us addicts? Addicted to pain disguised as poetry?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But tell me, Jack — would you rather feel nothing at all?”

Host: The question hung, fragile as vinyl static. The record spun slower, the needle trembling under the weight of time. Jack’s jaw clenched, his fingers tapping the table, betraying a rhythm he couldn’t quite escape.

Jack: “When I was twenty-two,” he said finally, “I used to play that song after my shifts. I’d get home at 2 a.m., too tired to think, too wired to sleep. That chorus — it hit me like a confession. But after a while, it stopped healing. It started haunting. Like she was reminding me what I’d lost.”

Jeeny: “And yet you kept playing it.”

Jack: “Because I didn’t know how to stop.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what Lea meant. It’s not about the song making you feel better — it’s about letting it hurt with you. There’s a strange peace in that — in not being alone with your sorrow.”

Host: The air thickened with memory, the rain outside softening into a gentle drizzle. The store felt suspended — like a dream held open, a moment refusing to end.

Jack: “So sadness becomes a ritual then. We light candles made of songs.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But rituals keep us human. They remind us that we once cared. That’s why Time After Time is perfect — it’s a promise and a farewell in one breath.”

Jack: “A promise and a farewell… That’s a cruel symmetry.”

Jeeny: “It’s also life.”

Host: The needle lifted, the song ended, and for a moment, the room held its breath. Then Jeeny moved, placing the record sleeve gently back into its place, as though returning a soul to its rest.

Jeeny: “Do you know what I think?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “We don’t listen to songs like that because we want to feel sad. We listen because they tell us sadness is okay — that even if we fall apart, someone, somewhere, once did too. And they survived.”

Jack: quietly “Time after time.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Exactly.”

Host: Jack smiled, the kind that barely shows, but changes everything. He looked out the window — the rain had stopped, the city lights reflected in puddles like tiny galaxies scattered across the sidewalk. Somewhere in the distance, another version of Time After Time played — softer, slower — as if the universe itself was humming along.

Jack: “You know, maybe you’re right. Maybe perfection isn’t about flawless notes. Maybe it’s about feeling something so true, you don’t care if it hurts.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Lea meant — that beauty isn’t supposed to save you. It’s supposed to remind you you’re still alive.”

Jack: “And maybe being alive means letting sadness visit sometimes.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And pouring it into music instead of silence.”

Host: The camera pulls back, showing them silhouetted against the window, two small figures surrounded by records, dust, and light. Outside, the street glows under the after-rain shimmer, as if the world itself were listening.

Cyndi Lauper’s voice echoes faintly again —
“If you fall, I will catch you, I’ll be waiting…”

And as the scene fades, the final light in the store flickers,
leaving only the sound of a turntable spinning —
a quiet circle of memory,
time after time.