Having haters is just a part of the business, and the more haters

Host: The studio lights hummed overhead — a faint, electric buzz that filled the empty air. The city skyline beyond the glass wall glowed faintly, glittering like a promise someone forgot to keep. It was almost midnight. The recording session had ended hours ago, but Jack still sat in the control room, staring at the soundboard, his reflection fractured in its glass surface.

A faint beat still pulsed through the speakers, looping endlessly — a fragment of melody, unfinished and haunting.

Jeeny entered quietly, her heels clicking softly against the floor. She carried two mugs of coffee and the kind of patience that comes from knowing how to sit with someone else’s silence.

Jeeny: “You’re still here.”

Jack: “Yeah.” (he gave a half-smile) “I’m waiting for the applause.”

Jeeny: “It’s one in the morning. Even the applause went to sleep.”

Jack: “Figures.”

Host: She set a mug beside him. The smell of coffee and burnt sugar filled the space. For a long moment, they sat in the kind of quiet that only exists between people who’ve already said too much.

Jeeny: “You know, I read something Nick Jonas said once.”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “The pop star philosopher?”

Jeeny: (grinning) “He said, ‘Having haters is just a part of the business, and the more haters you have, the more people like you — that’s how I view it, because I try to see the positive in things.’”

Jack: “He must’ve been twenty when he said that.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But youth doesn’t make him wrong.”

Host: Jack leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face — half amusement, half exhaustion.

Jack: “So, what, we measure success by hate mail now?”

Jeeny: “Not hate. Resistance. The world doesn’t fight what doesn’t matter.”

Jack: “That’s a nice line. You should write it on a T-shirt.”

Jeeny: “I’m serious, Jack. Every voice that pushes against you means you’ve been heard.”

Host: The soundboard lights blinked like small constellations. Jack watched them as if trying to decode his own pulse through their rhythm.

Jack: “You know, it’s funny — I used to dream about being seen. Every artist does. But no one tells you that the moment you’re visible, you become a target.”

Jeeny: “That’s because visibility is power. And power always makes someone uncomfortable.”

Jack: “Maybe I didn’t want power. Maybe I just wanted to matter.”

Jeeny: “They’re the same thing when you’re honest.”

Host: The room fell into a low hum again — the lingering echo of sound waves, ambition, and doubt.

Jack: “You think Jonas really believed what he said? That hate is just proof of success?”

Jeeny: “I think he believed in balance. Every light casts a shadow. The brighter you get, the sharper the outline of your enemies.”

Jack: “Then why does it still hurt?”

Jeeny: “Because you’re human. And humans weren’t built for endless noise.”

Host: Jack turned toward her then, his expression softening under the fluorescent haze.

Jack: “You ever think people mistake hate for attention? Like they need someone to fight them just to feel alive?”

Jeeny: “All the time. But maybe the trick is learning not to feed on it.”

Jack: “So just… ignore it?”

Jeeny: “No. Transform it.”

Jack: “Into what?”

Jeeny: “Fuel.”

Host: Her eyes glimmered — not with naivety, but with conviction born of surviving her own bruises.

Jeeny: “You can’t let bitterness make you brittle. You take the noise and make it rhythm. You take the insult and turn it into melody.”

Jack: “That sounds poetic. In real life, it just feels like bleeding in public.”

Jeeny: “That’s what art is, Jack.”

Host: His laugh was quiet — the kind that carries equal parts truth and surrender.

Jack: “You make it sound noble.”

Jeeny: “It is. Every artist bleeds so someone else can feel less alone.”

Jack: “And the haters?”

Jeeny: “They prove the art reached someone who wasn’t ready to be reached.”

Host: Outside, thunder rolled faintly, the kind that rumbles more than strikes. The city lights flickered against the glass — white, yellow, blue — like the heartbeat of the world itself.

Jack: “You know what gets me? I try to do something honest, something real, and the first reaction is people calling it pretentious.”

Jeeny: “That’s the price of sincerity — it terrifies the insincere.”

Jack: “You think cynics are just scared romantics?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. They used to believe, and it broke them.”

Host: The rain began again, slow and steady, a quiet percussion against the window.

Jack: “So you’re saying hate is just unprocessed admiration?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. And sometimes it’s just noise from people who never learned how to build.”

Jack: “And how do you stay grounded through it?”

Jeeny: “By remembering who I make things for.”

Jack: “Which is?”

Jeeny: “The ones who listen, not the ones who shout.”

Host: The studio lights dimmed to a soft glow. The looping melody that had haunted the room all night played one final time before fading out.

Jack: “You really think it’s that simple? That every insult, every headline, every whisper behind your back means you’re doing something right?”

Jeeny: “Not every one. But if you’re brave enough to stand for something, someone will always stand against you. That’s the proof you’re alive.”

Jack: “Alive. Not loved.”

Jeeny: “The loved and the hated are often the same person — just seen through different hearts.”

Host: Jack took a long sip of coffee. The bitterness grounded him. He looked up, half a smile breaking through.

Jack: “You know, you should start charging for this wisdom. You’d make a great therapist.”

Jeeny: “I’d rather be your mirror. You just need to see the reflection clearly.”

Jack: “And what do you see?”

Jeeny: “Someone who mistakes criticism for condemnation.”

Jack: “And what should I do about that?”

Jeeny: “Remember: applause fades faster than hate. So stop chasing either. Create for the silence that comes after.”

Host: Her words settled like dust after a storm — quiet, final, true.

The rain softened. The neon outside dimmed. Somewhere deep in the building, a generator hummed — the heartbeat of an industry that never really sleeps.

Jack: (softly) “You know, maybe Jonas was right. Maybe the trick isn’t avoiding hate. It’s learning to turn it into light.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Hate is loud, but love lasts longer.”

Host: She stood, gathering her things, pausing at the door before turning back.

Jeeny: “Just remember — if no one’s hating, you’re probably not saying anything worth hearing.”

Jack: (grinning) “That’s dangerously optimistic.”

Jeeny: “No. That’s art.”

Host: She left him there — alone with his half-finished song and the hum of the rain.

He stared at the console once more, pressed a single key, and watched the red record light blink back to life.

The music rose — raw, imperfect, defiant.

And in that moment, every insult, every shadow, every hater became something else entirely —
not noise,
but proof.

Proof that he was still here,
still creating,
still brave enough to be seen.