For me, it's about the way I carry myself and the way I treat

Host: The night pressed softly against the windows of the small recording studio, the world outside hushed and silver under the city’s scattered light. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of coffee, wood, and old music — half-written lyrics pinned to the wall, a guitar leaning against an amp, an unfinished melody humming from a forgotten speaker.

The room was quiet now, after hours. The session had ended, the noise had died, but the spirit of the work — that lingering pulse of art and faith — still hung in the air.

Jack sat cross-legged on the studio floor, his back against the wall, hands wrapped around a mug that had gone cold. His eyes were distant, heavy not with fatigue but with reflection.

Jeeny sat beside him, her knees drawn up, hair tied back loosely, the soft hum of her voice the only thing breaking the silence. Her tone was calm, the kind of calm that comes from knowing what anchors you — and what doesn’t.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder what keeps people grounded after the applause?”

Jack: “Gravity. Or guilt.”

Jeeny: “You’re deflecting.”

Jack: “I’m deflecting poetically. That counts for something.”

Jeeny: “You’ve been chasing meaning again, haven’t you?”

Jack: “I wouldn’t call it chasing. More like wandering with purpose.”

Jeeny: “You make faith sound like a GPS.”

Jack: “Because I don’t have one. Not anymore.”

Jeeny: “Beyoncé once said, ‘For me, it’s about the way I carry myself and the way I treat other people. My relationship and how I feel about God and what He does for me, is something deeply personal. It’s where I came from — my family, I was brought up in a religious household and that’s very important to me.’”

Jack: “Yeah, I read that. Sounds nice — soft power, humility wrapped in perfection.”

Jeeny: “It’s not perfection. It’s grounding. You call it soft. I call it strength.”

Host: The lamp above them flickered once, its golden light settling like a halo across the walls lined with soundproofing foam and faded posters. The kind of light that makes truth feel safe.

Jack: “You really think faith has room in this world anymore? Between ambition, fame, algorithms, and self-promotion?”

Jeeny: “Faith doesn’t need room. It makes room.”

Jack: “You make it sound like a guest you can’t turn away.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Faith’s the one thing that keeps showing up, even when you’ve stopped believing you deserve visitors.”

Jack: “So you still pray?”

Jeeny: “Every day.”

Jack: “For what?”

Jeeny: “For the courage to stay kind. For the strength to stay grateful.”

Jack: “You think God listens?”

Jeeny: “I don’t pray to be heard. I pray to remember who I am.”

Jack: “That’s heavy.”

Jeeny: “It’s home.”

Host: Outside, a car horn sounded faintly, then faded back into the hum of the city. Inside, time felt suspended — two people sitting in the soft cradle of creation, between music and meaning.

Jack: “You know, I used to believe in God. Not in the church way — just in the idea that something bigger was keeping score.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I believe the world runs on luck, timing, and survival instincts.”

Jeeny: “That sounds lonely.”

Jack: “It’s pragmatic.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s armor.”

Jack: “Armor’s what keeps people from breaking.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Armor’s what keeps people from feeling.”

Host: She turned toward him then, her eyes steady — not trying to convince, just to remind. The light caught her features in soft tones — calm, human, alive.

Jeeny: “You think faith makes people weak?”

Jack: “I think it makes them dependent.”

Jeeny: “On what?”

Jack: “On comfort. On certainty. On stories they can’t prove.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe dependence isn’t the disease — maybe it’s the cure. Because believing you control everything is the loneliest illusion there is.”

Jack: “So you believe there’s meaning in all this?”

Jeeny: “Not in all of it. Just enough to keep going.”

Jack: “That’s vague.”

Jeeny: “That’s faith.”

Host: The studio clock ticked quietly, the sound marking seconds they weren’t rushing to fill. The silence between them wasn’t awkward; it was reverent, like sitting at the edge of something sacred but unnamed.

Jack: “You know, it’s strange. I’ve met people with all the answers — pastors, CEOs, gurus — and they all seem less sure than the ones who admit they don’t know anything.”

Jeeny: “Because doubt’s not the enemy of faith, Jack. It’s the language of it.”

Jack: “You always sound like you grew up in scripture.”

Jeeny: “I did. My mother read Psalms instead of bedtime stories.”

Jack: “Did it help?”

Jeeny: “It didn’t make life easier. Just more intentional.”

Jack: “You really think the way you treat people is spiritual?”

Jeeny: “It’s the only theology that matters. How you carry yourself, how you love, how you forgive — that’s church without walls.”

Jack: “You’d make a good preacher.”

Jeeny: “No. Just a believer who’s still learning to listen.”

Host: The rain started — faint at first, then soft and steady, each drop hitting the studio roof like a heartbeat. Jack leaned his head back against the wall, eyes closed.

Jack: “You ever think God gets tired of being thanked for things He didn’t do?”

Jeeny: “I think He gets tired of people forgetting to notice what He did.”

Jack: “You think He’s listening right now?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe we’re just listening to ourselves for once.”

Jack: “And that’s enough?”

Jeeny: “It’s a start.”

Host: The lamplight dimmed again, soft shadows folding around them like a benediction. On the wall, the half-written lyrics caught the glow — fragments of someone’s prayer disguised as art.

Jack: “You know, I envy people like you — people who still believe. It must be nice having somewhere to send your gratitude.”

Jeeny: “You don’t have to believe to be grateful. Gratitude’s the doorway, not the doctrine.”

Jack: “And what’s on the other side?”

Jeeny: “Peace. Not the loud kind. The kind that sits with you when everything else leaves.”

Jack: “That’s rare.”

Jeeny: “That’s God.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back — two figures sitting in the quiet hum of the studio, surrounded by the tools of creation and the ghosts of unfinished songs.

Outside, the rain softened, the city glowed. Inside, faith — small, quiet, unadvertised — lingered between them.

Host: Because Beyoncé was right — real faith isn’t a performance.
It’s how you carry yourself when no one’s watching.
It’s how you treat others when nothing’s at stake.
It’s not in the noise, but in the stillness.
Not in the sermons, but in the small kindnesses that remind the world what grace looks like.

And as the rain fell like applause from heaven,
Jack finally whispered — half to himself, half to something unseen:

“Maybe I still believe.
I just forgot what it felt like to say thank you.”

Host: And Jeeny smiled, quietly, knowingly —
because sometimes the holiest prayers
sound exactly like remembering.