Every year on my birthday, I start a new playlist titled after my

Host: The evening was tinted in neon and nostalgia. Streetlights hummed softly over rain-slick sidewalks, reflections shimmering like spilled confessions. A small diner on the corner buzzed with the low murmur of conversations, the clinking of glasses, and the faint hum of an old jukebox that played songs too old to belong to youth, and too new to belong to memory.

Jack sat by the window, a half-empty cup of coffee before him, his grey eyes lost in the flicker of passing headlights. Jeeny arrived late, as she often did, her coat damp from the drizzle, her eyes bright with the kind of warmth that could thaw cynicism if given enough time. She slid into the booth opposite him, shaking the rain from her hair, smiling faintly.

Jeeny: “Chris Hardwick once said, ‘Every year on my birthday, I start a new playlist titled after my current age so I can keep track of my favorite songs of the year as a sort of musical diary because I am a teenage girl.’”

Jack: (smirking) “A musical diary? How very sentimental. Seems we’ve reduced self-reflection to Spotify algorithms now.”

Host: The jukebox shifted to an old song — slow, melancholic, yet somehow alive — as if it remembered something the world had forgotten. Jeeny’s eyes softened; she didn’t look away from him.

Jeeny: “You think that’s shallow, but it’s not. It’s human. Each playlist is a timestamp of feeling. Every song — a moment, a version of yourself. That’s not vanity; it’s memory you can dance to.”

Jack: “Or nostalgia you can monetize. Even emotions have become data points now. ‘Dear Diary, today I felt heartbreak — track four, Taylor Swift.’”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But does it matter who profits, if the person listening still finds meaning? Music is how we leave fingerprints on time. Hardwick wasn’t mocking — he was admitting something universal: that we all need soundtracks to survive our own silence.”

Host: A car horn wailed in the distance, a long, lonely note dissolving into the city noise. Jack stirred his coffee, the small metal spoon clinking rhythmically against ceramic, like a metronome marking his unease.

Jack: “You make playlists sound like prayer beads. But at the end of the day, it’s all vanity — preserving the illusion that we matter enough to curate ourselves.”

Jeeny: “That’s not vanity, Jack. That’s identity. Curation is creation. We build ourselves from what moves us. Every song we love is a confession — not about who we are, but about who we were trying to become.”

Host: Her voice lingered, soft yet sharp, like the aftertaste of truth. The rain outside thickened, its rhythm merging with the jukebox, with breath, with heartbeat — an accidental symphony.

Jack: “You think every generation gets to write its soul through playlists?”

Jeeny: “No. Every generation finds its diary in a different form. The Greeks carved theirs in marble. The Renaissance painted theirs in oil. Ours — we record in sound waves and streaming data. The medium changes, but the longing doesn’t.”

Jack: (leaning back) “So you think a playlist is art?”

Jeeny: “Of course it is. It’s autobiographical art. Each track is a brushstroke — one joy, one regret, one night you don’t want to forget. And when you play it back, you hear not just music, but the ghosts of yourself.”

Host: The lights flickered briefly — a subtle reminder that even electricity has a pulse. Jack’s expression faltered; his sarcasm began to peel away.

Jack: “You know, I used to make mixtapes when I was younger. Cassette ones. I’d record over the radio, wait hours for a song to come on.”

Jeeny: (grinning) “And what did you call them?”

Jack: “Things like ‘Jack 17,’ ‘Jack 18.’ Thought I was cataloging taste, but really, I was preserving feeling. The first song I ever added was Bowie’s ‘Heroes.’”

Jeeny: “And what did seventeen-year-old Jack want to be a hero of?”

Jack: “Survival. Like everyone else who didn’t know how to belong.”

Host: The neon light from the diner’s sign spilled over his face, turning his grey eyes the color of melted chrome. Jeeny watched him quietly, her smile fading into empathy.

Jeeny: “Then you already understand Hardwick. That playlist wasn’t just about music — it was a ritual against forgetting. Each birthday, she made proof that she had lived, loved, changed. That’s sacred.”

Jack: “Sacred? That’s a strong word for pop playlists.”

Jeeny: “Tell that to the people who cry to them at 2 a.m. Or the ones who heal through them. You think we outgrow music, but really, it’s what carries us through every version of ourselves.”

Host: The rain began to ease, replaced by the slow drizzle that always follows surrender. The jukebox clicked again, playing a new tune — light, hopeful, something about beginnings.

Jack: “You ever make one?”

Jeeny: “Every year. Mine started at fourteen. The first song was ‘Fix You’ by Coldplay. It felt dramatic then. Now it just feels honest.”

Jack: “And this year?”

Jeeny: “Still adding to it. It’s called ‘Thirty.’ But I’ll tell you something — the songs have fewer breaks now. Fewer tracks about heartbreak, more about stillness. Growth doesn’t always sound like triumph. Sometimes it sounds like peace.”

Host: The words settled between them like soft dust, visible in the light but weightless in intent. Jack nodded slowly, his fingers tapping absently on the table — an old habit, the rhythm of thought disguised as restlessness.

Jack: “Maybe I should make one again. Call it ‘Thirty-Five.’ Start with something slow. Leonard Cohen, maybe.”

Jeeny: “No. Start with something alive. Something that reminds you you’re still writing.”

Jack: “You think that’s what this is all about? Keeping a record of our survival?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because one day, when memory fades, the songs will remember for us.”

Host: The camera panned outward — the diner, the lights, the faint reflection of rain-streaked windows. The jukebox kept playing as their voices quieted, the moment folding into the city’s endless melody.

Jack looked out the window, then back at her — something unspoken, almost gratitude.

Jack: “You know, maybe Hardwick wasn’t just joking. Maybe she was reminding us that it’s okay to soundtrack our own existence.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because every year, we change our tune — and that’s the most human thing there is.”

Host: Outside, the rain stopped completely, leaving the streets glistening, alive with reflections of light and memory. The neon sign blinked once, twice, then steadied — as if keeping time with the unseen music that threaded their hearts together.

And as the scene faded, the sound of a soft guitar filled the space — one that might have been from a playlist called “35.”
It played not for the world, but for two souls in a diner — remembering that every song, every year, every breath
is just another verse
in the long, unfinished melody of becoming.