I don't have the feeling of being motivated by anger, revenge or

Host: The night rain slid down the windowpane in slow, silver lines, catching the faint glow of a streetlamp outside. The sound was soft—almost like breathing. Inside the small apartment, the air was thick with warmth from a boiling kettle, its whistle fading into the hum of quiet jazz spilling from an old record player.

Jack sat near the window, sleeves rolled, a glass of whiskey beside him, his grey eyes lost in the reflection of the city’s neon pulse. Jeeny, sitting across from him at a small round table, cupped her hands around a mug of tea, her dark hair falling loosely over her shoulders.

The room felt suspended—like a memory in slow motion.

Jeeny: “Agnes Obel once said, ‘I don’t have the feeling of being motivated by anger, revenge or frustration.’”

Jack: (smirking faintly) “Then she’s lucky. Most people don’t move an inch without one of those three breathing down their neck.”

Jeeny: “You think peace is weakness, don’t you?”

Jack: “No. I think peace is a luxury. You need a full stomach and a quiet soul to speak of it. The rest of us get out of bed because something hurts—or because someone hurt us first.”

Host: The rain intensified, beating lightly against the glass. Jeeny turned her gaze toward it, her eyes distant, like she was watching a movie unfold outside.

Jeeny: “But anger burns too much. It consumes before it creates. I don’t believe real art, or real change, or real love grows from that kind of fire. It’s like trying to plant flowers in ash.”

Jack: “Tell that to Picasso after Guernica. Or to Nina Simone after Mississippi Goddam. Anger built those things. It’s what carved truth out of silence.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But only because they transformed it. They didn’t stay in the fire—they became the light after it.”

Host: A pause settled, filled by the low crackle of vinyl. The record player hissed softly, like it too was part of the conversation.

Jack: “Transformation sounds poetic. But most people don’t have that control. You get hurt, you hit back. You get betrayed, you close up. We’re not saints. We’re human.”

Jeeny: “Being human doesn’t mean being trapped in the worst of ourselves. Look at Mandela. He walked out of prison after twenty-seven years—not angry, but determined. He could have drowned his country in vengeance, but he didn’t. That’s not naïveté—that’s mastery.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice softened, yet her eyes sharpened with conviction. Jack’s hand tightened around his glass, his fingers tracing the rim as though he were trying to find something inside it—reason, maybe, or peace.

Jack: “You think I don’t get that? But maybe you’ve never had to live off anger. Some of us need it. It’s what keeps you alive when hope doesn’t return your calls.”

Jeeny: “That’s not living, Jack. That’s surviving. There’s a difference.”

Jack: (leaning forward) “And you think survival’s beneath you?”

Jeeny: (quietly) “No. I just think it’s not enough.”

Host: The light flickered, a bus passed, the reflection of its headlights painting brief white ghosts across the walls. Jeeny’s voice remained calm, like still water holding a storm beneath.

Jeeny: “I used to be angry, too. When my mother died, I hated everything—the doctors, the sky, even myself for not doing enough. It felt righteous, like I was feeding some kind of justice. But it was eating me alive. One morning I woke up and couldn’t remember the last thing that made me smile. That’s when I realized—anger isn’t a home. It’s a hotel for pain.”

Host: The words hit the air like the soft echo of a bell. Jack looked at her, something shifting in his eyes, something small but visible—like a man recognizing a song he’d forgotten.

Jack: “You talk like you’ve made peace with everything.”

Jeeny: “No. I’ve made peace with not needing to fight everything.”

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

Host: Jack’s whiskey glass caught the dim light, amber swirling like slow thunder. He raised it, studying the liquid, and then spoke with a half-laugh that carried too much history.

Jack: “You know what anger did for me? It got me through every failure. Every boss who said I’d never make it. Every person who walked away. It’s been my only constant companion.”

Jeeny: “And when it leaves?”

Jack: “I wouldn’t know what to do without it.”

Host: The rain softened, tapering into a whisper. The city outside seemed to slow, as though listening.

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s the point. Maybe you’re afraid to stop fighting because you don’t know what peace feels like anymore.”

Jack: “Peace doesn’t pay the rent.”

Jeeny: “Neither does pain.”

Host: The words fell between them like stones in a pond—ripples spreading outward, quiet but relentless.

Jack leaned back, exhaling, his shoulders heavy, his eyes tired.

Jack: “You know, there’s this boxer I once read about—he said he could only win when he was angry. That’s how he stayed sharp. But the night he fought calm, he got knocked down. He said afterward, he felt... free. Even in defeat.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe losing his anger was his real victory.”

Host: A smile ghosted across Jeeny’s lips, fragile but bright in the dim room. Jack noticed it—the kind of smile you can’t fake. He looked down at his hands, the lines in his palms catching the light.

Jack: “So you think we should all just… float through life, untouched? Forgiving, forgetting, pretending pain doesn’t exist?”

Jeeny: “No. Feel it. Always feel it. But don’t let it decide who you become. You can walk with pain without making it your shadow.”

Host: Her words softened, like a blanket thrown over a flame. The tension between them began to loosen, like two strings finally finding harmony.

Jack: “You sound like one of those meditation gurus.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I am. Or maybe I just got tired of bleeding for people who never noticed.”

Host: The record ended—silence, then the faint crackle of the needle against vinyl. Jack stood, crossed to the player, and lifted it gently. The silence after was complete—raw, almost sacred.

He turned back to her.

Jack: “You really don’t get angry anymore?”

Jeeny: “Of course I do. But I don’t let it stay long enough to unpack.”

Host: The rain stopped. A thin beam of moonlight slipped through the window, falling across Jeeny’s face. For a moment, she looked ethereal—half real, half reflection.

Jack: “I envy that.”

Jeeny: “You don’t need to. You just have to stop feeding the thing that’s starving you.”

Host: Jack’s expression softened; the stubborn edge in his voice melted into something gentler, more human.

Jack: “You ever think… anger’s just another form of grief?”

Jeeny: (after a pause) “Always.”

Host: The two sat in silence, the steam from her tea rising between them like a thin thread connecting two worlds. Outside, the city shimmered, cleansed by the rain.

Jack finally spoke, voice low, vulnerable.

Jack: “Maybe I’m tired of being angry.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you’re finally ready to live.”

Host: A long moment passed before Jack smiled—a small, uncertain thing, but real. He raised his glass toward her; she lifted her cup in reply.

The clink was soft, almost imperceptible, but it echoed like a promise.

Outside, the moon broke free from the clouds, spilling silver light across the floor. The rain smell lingered, fresh and alive, as if the world itself had just taken a deep breath.

And in that fragile, quiet space between two souls, the anger, the revenge, the frustration—all of it—finally began to fade, like smoke dissolving into air.