I am quite a romantic person, really, and I should have put that

Host:
The stage lights had long since gone out, but the room still smelled of electricity — the ghost of sound that never quite fades. The guitar lay on its side against a worn amp, its strings humming faintly with leftover reverb. The neon sign above the door buzzed, bleeding red across the dark.

It was the hour after applause, when noise collapses into silence, and ego finally becomes shadow.

Jack sat on the edge of the stage, cigarette dangling from his lips, the faint blue smoke curling into the empty air. His leather jacket was half-unzipped, his hair still damp with sweat. Across from him, Jeeny sat on a speaker, legs crossed, cradling a chipped mug of coffee that had gone cold an hour ago. Her eyes, dark and quiet, carried that particular light — the kind that saw straight through the noise.

The world outside was sleeping. Inside, two souls lingered in the echo.

Jeeny:
“Billy Idol once said, ‘I am quite a romantic person, really, and I should have put that into my music earlier, but I was probably denying it… I didn’t want to be soft because I felt I had to be so hard to get people to believe in me.’”

Host:
Her voice floated like a final note from a fading song. Jack laughed softly — not mockingly, but with a kind of bitter recognition.

Jack:
“Yeah. That sounds about right. You spend years trying to sound tough enough for the world to take you seriously… then one night you realize the only thing you ever wanted was to sing something tender.”

Jeeny:
“You say that like tenderness is a sin.”

Jack:
“It is, in this business. People don’t want truth — they want a performance. They want grit, not grace.”

Jeeny:
“And what do you want, Jack?”

Jack:
“I wanted to be believed. That’s all. I thought if I looked strong enough, loud enough, angry enough, no one would see the cracks.”

Jeeny:
“Maybe the cracks were the music.”

Host:
A low hum came from the amp — like a wounded heartbeat trying to remember its rhythm. Jack flicked his cigarette into an empty bottle, the smoke curling upward in defiance of gravity.

He looked at Jeeny, half-smiling, half-surrendering.

Jack:
“You ever notice how people confuse strength with silence? Like if you don’t talk about pain, it somehow makes you immune to it.”

Jeeny:
“That’s because vulnerability scares them. It’s contagious. The moment someone sees your softness, it reminds them of their own.”

Jack:
“That’s exactly why I buried mine under distortion. Power chords and clenched teeth. No one questions rage — but they’ll crucify you for honesty.”

Jeeny:
“Then why do you look so tired, Jack?”

Jack:
“Because rage doesn’t sing forever. It burns out the voice.”

Host:
The light from the neon sign flickered, painting his face in a pulse of red and black. For a second, it looked like a confession he hadn’t yet said out loud.

Jeeny:
“Billy Idol’s right, you know. That denial thing. We spend half our lives pretending not to be romantic, not to need anyone, not to feel too much. But it always leaks through — in the pauses between the chords.”

Jack:
“You think I’ve been hiding a love song all this time?”

Jeeny:
“I think every angry song you’ve ever written was a love song. You just changed the key so no one would notice.”

Jack:
(chuckling) “You make that sound poetic.”

Jeeny:
“It’s not poetic. It’s human. Even rebellion has a heartbeat.”

Host:
The rain began to tap against the metal roof above, steady and unhurried. Jack picked up his guitar, ran a thumb along the strings. The sound that came out was soft — almost fragile.

Jack:
“You know what I hated most when I was younger? Being called sensitive. Like it was an insult. Like feeling deeply made you weak.”

Jeeny:
“And now?”

Jack:
“Now I think sensitivity is just strength without armor.”

Jeeny:
(smiling) “So maybe it’s time to stop wearing the armor.”

Jack:
“Yeah… but what if no one listens when I take it off?”

Jeeny:
“Then you sing for the silence.”

Host:
The room fell still. Only the faint hum of neon and the whisper of rain kept time.

Jack strummed a few chords — low, unfinished, like an idea that hadn’t decided whether to live or die.

Jack:
“You ever wonder why we think we have to be hard to be heard?”

Jeeny:
“Because we confuse volume with value.”

Jack:
“And softness?”

Jeeny:
“Softness doesn’t shout. It lingers. It stays long after the noise fades.”

Jack:
“So you’re saying I should write the song I’m afraid of.”

Jeeny:
“Exactly. The one that costs you something to sing.”

Host:
He let the words hang there. The rain grew louder. The red light flickered again, trembling across the strings. He played another note — this one clear, honest, unguarded.

It filled the space between them like a truth that had been waiting too long.

Jack:
“You know what’s strange? I think all this time I wasn’t trying to prove anything to people. I was trying to convince myself that feeling wasn’t fatal.”

Jeeny:
“And?”

Jack:
“And maybe it’s the only thing that keeps us alive.”

Host:
Jeeny smiled — that soft, knowing smile that carried more empathy than pity. She reached out, touched the neck of the guitar.

Jeeny:
“Then stop denying it. Write what hurts. Write what loves. Let the world call it weak — they’ll still hum it when they’re alone.”

Jack:
“You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny:
“It’s not. But it’s worth it.”

Host:
The camera pans slowly — over the empty seats, the abandoned microphones, the coiled cables snaking across the floor. All the ghosts of performance, listening.

Jack begins to play — softly at first, then stronger. No distortion, no armor, no rebellion. Just melody.

It isn’t perfect. It isn’t even polished. But it’s real.

Jeeny closes her eyes, lets the sound wash over her like rain.

Host (softly):
There are moments when truth sounds quieter than applause —
when strength isn’t the roar of defiance,
but the tremor in the voice that finally dares to say,
“I care.”

In the end, every artist must face the same question:
Will you keep pretending to be hard enough for the world,
or will you risk being soft enough to be heard?

The scene fades — the last note hanging in the air like breath.

Two silhouettes — one holding a guitar, one holding silence — framed in the red hum of neon.

And somewhere between defiance and tenderness,
Jack’s music finally turns romantic —
not because he tried,
but because he finally stopped pretending not to be.