I don't display emotions. I have every feeling that everyone else

Host: The night hung low over the city, a quilt of neon haze and restless rain. In a forgotten warehouse by the river, broken windows framed the trembling reflections of red and blue lights. The air was thick with the scent of oil, iron, and the faint burn of memory.
Jack sat on a cold metal chair, cigarette in hand, his grey eyes fixed on the faint glow of the skyline. Jeeny stood near the door, her small frame half-lit by the flicker of an old bulb swinging from the ceiling.

Host: Between them, the silence was alive — a pulse, a ghost, a fist neither wanted to unclench.

Jeeny: “Curtis Jackson once said, ‘I don’t display emotions. I have every feeling that everyone else has, but I’ve developed ways to suppress them. Anger is one of my most comfortable feelings.’”

Jack: (exhaling smoke) “That’s honesty. Brutal, clean honesty. Some people fight to feel less. Some of us fight to keep from feeling at all.”

Jeeny: “You sound like him. Detached, cold, comfortable in your own numbness.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Not numb, Jeeny. Controlled. There’s a difference. Feelings are like fire — beautiful from a distance, but they burn if you stand too close. Anger, though — anger you can hold. It keeps you warm. It gives you direction.”

Host: The rain pattered harder on the roof, a slow percussion that matched the rhythm of their voices. A single ray of streetlight crept through the window, slicing across Jack’s face, illuminating the sharp edge of a man who’d built a fortress out of reason.

Jeeny: “You call that direction? Anger consumes you, Jack. You think you’re steering it, but it’s steering you. It’s the easiest emotion to live with because it hides the others — the grief, the fear, the love you’re too afraid to lose.”

Jack: (grinding his cigarette into an ashtray) “At least anger gets things done. Look around you. The world isn’t built by the gentle. Empires, revolutions, inventions — they’re born out of fury. Even artists use anger as their muse. You think Van Gogh painted peace?”

Jeeny: (stepping closer) “But he felt peace when he painted, Jack. That’s what you miss. You think anger is strength because it’s loud. But strength is the quiet thing that doesn’t need to shout. What Curtis Jackson called suppression — I call a cage.”

Host: The bulb above them swayed, its light rocking back and forth, casting long shadows that crawled along the walls like memories refusing to die. Jack’s jaw tightened. Jeeny’s voice trembled — a fragile thread holding onto belief.

Jack: “A cage? No. A strategy. When I was younger, I used to let every emotion run wild — hope, sadness, trust. They betrayed me. Every one of them. You learn that when you expose what’s soft, the world digs its nails in. Anger, though — anger’s armor.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Armor keeps you alive, yes. But it also keeps you alone.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, soft and lethal. The rain began to ease, leaving only the faint drip from the eaves. Jack looked away, his reflection warped in a puddle on the floor — two Jacks: one flesh, one ghost.

Jack: “Maybe being alone is safer. People always demand your heart but can’t handle its storms. So you learn to keep it shut. Anger’s clean — predictable. Love’s a battlefield with no rules.”

Jeeny: (with quiet defiance) “Then why are you here, talking to me, instead of being alone with your anger?”

Host: The question struck like a soft knife. Jack’s eyes flickered. He didn’t answer. Outside, a train passed — a low, distant rumble that made the floor tremble.

Jeeny: “You think suppression is control, but it’s not. It’s suffocation. People like Curtis — like you — say they can’t show emotion, but deep down, they crave the very connection they deny.”

Jack: “Connection is currency, Jeeny. And I’ve seen what happens when it runs out. People betray for less than a heartbeat. The world teaches you to hold your cards close.”

Jeeny: “And anger is the card you never put down.”

Host: A small silence grew, stretching long and thin, until it became unbearable. The light bulb flickered again — a faint hum, a dying sound. Jack rubbed his hands together, his voice dropping low, almost like confession.

Jack: “You ever notice how anger feels honest? It’s not pretty, but it doesn’t lie. Sadness pretends to be poetry. Joy tricks you into thinking it’ll last. But anger… anger tells you something’s wrong and dares you to fix it.”

Jeeny: “But it doesn’t fix anything, Jack. It just keeps you busy. It’s the illusion of control. It gives you something to punch so you don’t have to heal.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes glistened in the faint light, her breath trembling as if each word cost her part of herself. Jack looked at her — really looked — and for a brief instant, the mask he wore cracked.

Jack: (softly) “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t feel everything I bury? Every night, it comes back — the regret, the fear, the faces. Anger’s the only one that doesn’t disappear. It’s the only one that stays when the rest fade.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s the only one you feed.”

Host: The rain stopped. The city outside went quiet — a suspended moment in time. Even the air felt heavier, as if the world were waiting for him to answer.

Jack: (barely above a whisper) “Maybe. Maybe it’s easier to keep the fire alive than to admit I’m cold.”

Jeeny: “That’s the tragedy of strength, Jack. You’ve mistaken survival for peace.”

Host: Her voice broke the silence like a prayer whispered in a battlefield. Jack looked down, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass, the ash from his cigarette like grey snow. A small crack appeared in his stoic calm — subtle, but real.

Jack: “Curtis Jackson said anger was his most comfortable feeling. I get that. Comfort’s not always good — it’s just familiar. Maybe I’m addicted to what I understand.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time to understand something else.”

Host: The light steadied. Outside, the sky began to pale with the first touch of dawn. Through the cracked window, a faint breeze drifted in, carrying the smell of wet earth — the scent of renewal.

Jeeny stepped closer, her hand brushing the back of his. It wasn’t an embrace, just a presence — soft, human, unspoken.

Jeeny: “You don’t have to unfeel everything, Jack. You just have to let the fire warm you instead of burn you.”

Jack: (meeting her gaze) “And what if it burns you, too?”

Jeeny: “Then at least it’s real.”

Host: A long pause, and then Jack laughed — not harshly, but with the soft disbelief of a man realizing his own fragility. The sunlight began to bleed through the windows, catching the faint smoke in the air like silver dust.

Host: For the first time, the warehouse didn’t feel empty. It felt like the inside of a heartbeat rediscovering its rhythm.

Host: And as they stood there — one armored by anger, the other disarmed by empathy — they both saw the same truth in different mirrors: suppression may silence emotion, but it cannot kill it. It only waits for the moment someone dares to look it in the eyes.

Host: Outside, the city awoke — engines growled, pigeons stirred, and the faint hum of life returned. Inside, the last echo of Curtis Jackson’s words lingered like smoke before dawn:

“Anger is one of my most comfortable feelings.”

Host: But for the first time, Jack wondered if comfort was the enemy of healing.