I am tortured when I am away from my family, from my children. I

Host: The train station breathed with the restless hum of departures and goodbyes. Fluorescent lights cast pale, unkind shadows on the metal benches, where faces blurred between strangers and memories. The air was thick with the smell of rain-soaked concrete and the distant echo of a departing whistle.

Jack stood near the platform, his coat collar raised against the wind, a suitcase at his feet. His grey eyes followed the rails disappearing into darkness, as if they could tell him where his life had gone.

Jeeny approached slowly, her hair damp, her eyes tired but kind. She held a cup of coffee in both hands, steam curling upward like the ghost of warmth that refused to die.

Between them hung the echo of Jessica Lange’s confession, heavy as unspoken truth:
“I am tortured when I am away from my family, from my children. I am horribly guilt-ridden.”

Jeeny: (softly) “That’s the worst kind of pain, isn’t it? The kind that doesn’t come from loss, but from leaving.”

Jack: (doesn’t look at her) “You say that like it’s a choice.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t it?”

Jack: (dry laugh) “Not always. Sometimes you walk away not because you want to, but because you’re too broken to stay.”

Host: A child’s laughter echoed from the other end of the station, sharp and fleeting—a sound like light cutting through fog. Jack’s eyes flickered, his hand tightening on the handle of his suitcase.

Jeeny: “Do you think she was wrong—Jessica Lange? To feel that way? To call it torture?”

Jack: “No. She was just honest. People love to talk about freedom—how you can be anything, go anywhere—but they never tell you the price. You don’t just leave your home, you leave pieces of yourself behind. You start collecting ghosts instead of memories.”

Jeeny: (nods slowly) “I think guilt is love that hasn’t found its way back yet.”

Jack: (turns to her) “That’s poetic. But guilt’s not love—it’s debt. It’s the interest we pay for wanting both dreams and devotion.”

Host: The loudspeaker crackled overhead, calling out destinations in a metallic voice that seemed to mock every human heart still undecided. A train wailed in the distance—long, mournful, infinite.

Jeeny: “You think it’s wrong to want both?”

Jack: “I think it’s impossible. You can’t give the world your best and still have enough left for the ones you love. You either chase meaning, or you stay and build home. But not both. The universe doesn’t pay out on both bets.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the problem isn’t the universe—maybe it’s how we measure worth. You think your children care how much you achieved, or how many nights you came home late?”

Jack: (sighs, runs his hand through his hair) “Don’t start that. You talk like the world’s simple. It’s not. You know what broke me? Not the work—not the flights, not the loneliness. It was the look in my daughter’s eyes when I missed her recital. That look said everything—‘You chose them over me.’ And maybe she was right.”

Host: The station lights flickered, and for a moment, the two of them seemed caught in a kind of cinematic stillness—two souls, stranded between duty and desire, like travelers missing the same train.

Jeeny: (gently) “She didn’t say that, Jack. Children don’t understand choice the way adults do. To them, absence is the same as abandonment.”

Jack: “Exactly. That’s why it’s torture. You leave thinking you’re doing it for them—to build something better—but what they really wanted was just you. And by the time you realize that, they’ve already learned how to live without you.”

Jeeny: (voice breaking slightly) “Maybe not. Maybe they just learned how to wait differently.”

Jack: (bitter smile) “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because love is stubborn. It waits, it hurts, it forgives. Even when we don’t deserve it.”

Host: The clock above the platform ticked louder, like the heartbeat of a guilt-ridden god. A train pulled in—its doors sliding open with a hiss, its lights glowing like a confession too late to take back.

Jack: “You talk like forgiveness is easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. It’s messy, it’s unfair, it’s painful. But it’s the only way we stop the guilt from owning us.”

Jack: “You ever feel it?”

Jeeny: (looks down) “Every day. My mother died while I was abroad. I told myself I’d visit her next month. There was always a next month. And when she was gone, all that was left was this… ache. Not grief. Just guilt—the kind that doesn’t fade. So, yes. I know what it’s like to be away. To have your heart split across places you can’t return to.”

Jack: (quietly) “I didn’t know.”

Jeeny: “You never asked.”

Host: The train doors began to close. A gust of wind swept through the station, carrying the scent of iron and rain. Jack didn’t move. His fingers tightened around the handle, but he didn’t step forward.

Jack: (half to himself) “It’s strange. You work your whole life to become someone, and then realize the people who loved you didn’t want ‘someone’—they just wanted you.”

Jeeny: (softly) “That’s the tragedy of ambition—it teaches us how to climb, but not how to return.”

Jack: (lets out a small laugh, almost breaking) “You know, sometimes I think guilt is just love’s shadow—it never leaves, it just follows further behind.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that shadow is what reminds us we’re still human.”

Host: The train pulled away, slow and reluctant, its wheels carving a long, fading cry into the night. Jack stood still, watching it go—not with regret, but with something heavier: recognition.

Jeeny: (watching him) “You didn’t get on.”

Jack: (shakes his head) “No. I think I’ve missed enough trains already.”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “Maybe this is the first one you were meant to miss.”

Jack: (nods, quietly) “Maybe.”

Host: The station lights dimmed, and the world outside the windows turned to silver mist. The rain had stopped, leaving only the sound of dripping water and the soft hum of electricity.

Jack turned toward Jeeny, his face softer now, the old tension gone.

Jack: “You think guilt ever really leaves?”

Jeeny: “No. It just changes shape. It becomes memory, then motivation, then maybe—if we’re lucky—forgiveness.”

Jack: “Forgiveness from who?”

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) “Ourselves.”

Host: They walked toward the exit, their footsteps echoing in quiet synchrony. Behind them, the station exhaled a final sigh, as though the walls themselves had heard every confession that passed through.

Outside, the sky began to pale—the first faint light of morning creeping along the rooftops. Jack paused, looking up, his breath visible in the cold air.

Host (final line):
“In that trembling hour before dawn, Jack understood the cruel mercy of guilt: it is the proof that love still lives where absence once reigned—and that sometimes, staying behind is the only way to truly return.”