For me, the interesting thing about anorexia is that you show

Host: The city was drenched in silver rain, the kind that blurred lights into trembling smears across the glass of a late-night café. Steam rose from cups, curling like ghosts of unspoken thoughts. A song from a distant jukebox whispered half-heartedly through the air, barely alive. Jack sat by the window, his reflection a pale mirage against the wet street. Across from him, Jeeny sat still, her hands wrapped around a mug that had long gone cold. Between them, the silence was thick — like fog, like a wound still open.

Jeeny: “I read something tonight,” she said softly, eyes fixed on the raindrops tracing rivers down the window. “Marti Noxon once said that anorexia is like showing your wound — that there’s no hiding it. It’s anger made visible. Pain that refuses to stay buried.”

Jack: He leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “You make it sound poetic. But it’s not poetry, Jeeny. It’s pathology. A symptom, not a statement.”

Host: The rain tapped harder, syncing with the pulse of the city — or perhaps the tension between them.

Jeeny: “And yet,” she murmured, “it is a statement. Don’t you see? Some wounds are too deep to speak. When you can’t cry out, your body does it for you. That’s not pathology, Jack — that’s protest.”

Jack: His eyes narrowed, grey and sharp. “Protest against what? Biology? Parents? The world for not being soft enough? You can’t call self-destruction rebellion.”

Jeeny: “Maybe rebellion is all that’s left when words fail,” she shot back, voice trembling but steady. “When your pain is ignored, it doesn’t disappear — it turns inward. It feeds on you until you become the evidence of your own suffering.”

Host: The candle between them flickered, throwing uneven shadows that played across Jeeny’s face, catching the glint of her wet lashes. Jack stared at her, a hint of unease threading through his otherwise controlled demeanor.

Jack: “You talk as if pain deserves to be glorified,” he said, his tone lower, more deliberate. “But all I see is tragedy turned into performance. You think baring wounds makes them noble. It doesn’t. It only keeps them open.”

Jeeny: “No,” she whispered, “it makes them real.” Her voice cracked slightly. “When I was fifteen, a girl in my class stopped eating. Everyone thought she was chasing perfection, but I saw her — saw how she would tremble whenever her parents looked at her. Her body became her voice. Every bone was a scream they refused to hear.”

Jack: “And did it change anything?” he asked bitterly. “Did they suddenly understand her pain? Or did they just pity her, call her broken, and move on?”

Jeeny: “It changed me,” Jeeny replied. “Because I saw what happens when people stop listening. When love turns blind.”

Host: The clock on the café wall ticked slow, heavy. Each second felt like an echo from a room long forgotten. Outside, a bus rolled through puddles, spraying water into the glow of streetlights — a brief burst of chaos before stillness resumed.

Jack: “You’re talking about empathy,” he said finally. “But empathy doesn’t cure disease. Understanding doesn’t make a wound close faster.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said, “but understanding stops us from being the ones who caused it.”

Jack: “That’s an optimistic view of humanity,” he muttered. “But most people don’t want to understand pain, Jeeny. They want to erase it. Look at how society treats anyone who shows weakness — therapy becomes a trend, not healing. Pain becomes a badge online, not something to mend. It’s all performance.”

Jeeny: “And what’s the alternative? Silence? Pretending everything’s fine while dying inside?”

Jack: “Maybe,” he said, exhaling smoke from an unseen cigarette. “Maybe dignity lies in restraint. Not every wound needs an audience.”

Host: The light flickered, then steadied. A passing car splashed the sidewalk, and for a second, both looked toward the window, toward their reflections blurred in the glass. The rain softened.

Jeeny: “That’s easy for you to say. You wear your pain in sarcasm and logic. You call it realism, but it’s just another kind of hiding.”

Jack: “And you,” he said, leaning forward, “turn suffering into art. You romanticize the bleeding just to feel alive. Tell me, Jeeny, what’s the difference between courage and self-destruction when the line blurs?”

Jeeny: “Intention,” she said immediately. “The difference is in why we do it. Some starve themselves to disappear. Others starve themselves to be seen.”

Host: The air between them grew heavier, like the room itself was holding its breath. The candle guttered again.

Jack: “You think there’s power in suffering,” he said. “But I think power lies in overcoming it. You want the world to look at your wound — I want the world to stop needing to.”

Jeeny: “You’re missing it,” she said, eyes fierce now. “It’s not about wanting attention. It’s about wanting acknowledgment. There’s a difference. When someone says ‘I’m fine’ while they’re breaking, that’s not strength — that’s surrender.”

Jack: “And showing the wound isn’t surrender?”

Jeeny: “It’s survival,” she said quietly. “Because pretending kills faster.”

Host: Silence again. A long, aching kind. Jack’s fingers drummed the table, slow and thoughtful. Jeeny’s eyes glistened, not from sadness, but from memory — something personal, unspoken, suspended in that dim café light.

Jack: “You ever think,” he began slowly, “that some people hurt themselves because it’s the only thing they can control? Maybe it’s not about visibility. Maybe it’s about power — the smallest, cruelest kind.”

Jeeny: “Control is part of it, yes,” she said. “But it’s born from helplessness. You can’t reduce that to choice, Jack. No one chooses to starve unless they’re starving for something else — love, safety, recognition.”

Jack: “Recognition,” he echoed. “That word again. Always comes back to being seen.”

Jeeny: “Because being unseen is the slowest death there is.”

Host: The rain eased into a whisper. The streets shimmered under the soft glow of lamplight. Inside, the café hummed with the faint sound of the espresso machine. The world went on, indifferent, while their conversation carved its quiet revolution.

Jack: “You know,” he said after a moment, “I read once that the Greek word for truth, aletheia, means ‘to un-hide.’ Maybe you’re right. Maybe showing the wound is its own form of truth.”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she said, almost smiling. “Even if it’s ugly.”

Jack: “Especially if it’s ugly.”

Host: The words lingered like a fragile peace. For the first time, Jack’s voice softened, and Jeeny’s eyes gentled. The rain outside had stopped, leaving the streets slick with reflection — a mirror to the sky, bruised but clearing.

Jeeny: “Maybe,” she said, “it’s not about glorifying pain or hiding it. Maybe it’s about making it visible enough for someone else to recognize theirs.”

Jack: “And in that recognition,” he said, “we start to heal.”

Host: The light shifted, gold now, from a streetlamp flickering through the window. It fell across their faces, mingling shadow and warmth, like forgiveness learning how to breathe. The rain left a faint smell of earth in the air — clean, raw, alive.

Jeeny: “So,” she whispered, “maybe the wound isn’t a weakness. Maybe it’s a bridge.”

Jack: “A painful one,” he murmured.

Jeeny: “All bridges are.”

Host: Outside, a woman walked by holding a child, her coat glistening from the storm. The world was quieter now, as if exhausted from its own noise. Inside the café, the flame of the candle steadied, burning small but certain.

Jack and Jeeny sat in that flickering light, the silence between them no longer heavy, but human — like the echo of something understood.

And as the last of the rain dried on the glass, it left behind no hiding place — only the truth, visible and tender, like a wound that had finally learned how to speak.