I don't necessarily like anniversaries that much.

Title: The Weight of Time

Host: The evening was thick with the slow hum of rain, drumming softly on the roof of an old bookshop that had seen too many seasons. The light was warm and amber, cast by a flickering lamp that leaned slightly to one side, as though even it had grown weary of standing straight for so many years.

Jack sat near the back, in a corner surrounded by half-forgotten novels and the faint scent of dust and ink. His hands rested on a cup of untouched coffee, its steam curling lazily into the dim air.

Jeeny stood by the window, her reflection fractured by raindrops. She traced her finger across the glass as though writing invisible words — memories she hadn’t yet decided whether to keep or release.

Outside, the city pulsed faintly — car lights gliding like ghosts through wet streets. Inside, time seemed to fold in on itself.

Jeeny: “Jean-Michel Jarre once said — ‘I don’t necessarily like anniversaries that much.’”

Jack: (quietly) “Good man. Finally, someone who admits it.”

Host: His voice carried that familiar blend of irony and fatigue, the kind that comes from too many years of pretending celebrations mean something they don’t.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “You say that like you’ve been avoiding them your whole life.”

Jack: “I don’t avoid them. I just don’t believe in them. They turn memory into obligation. You light a candle for the past instead of living in the present.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point — to remember. To pause and see how far we’ve come.”

Jack: “Or how far we’ve fallen.”

Host: The rain thickened, a rhythmic percussion against the glass, punctuating their sentences like uninvited applause.

Jeeny: “You sound bitter.”

Jack: “No. I’m just realistic. Anniversaries — birthdays, weddings, deaths, wars — they’re all just reminders that time’s been moving while you’re still stuck in the same place.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you’re stuck because you refuse to look back.”

Jack: “Looking back doesn’t change what’s ahead.”

Jeeny: “It changes how you move forward.”

Host: She turned, her eyes reflecting the lamplight — brown and bright, with a depth that could unearth the truth even when Jack tried to bury it.

Jack shifted, his shoulders tightening under his coat. The air between them grew heavier, dense with the ghosts of unspoken years.

Jack: “You know what I think anniversaries really are? Permission to feel something we’ve ignored all year. We condense love, grief, gratitude — everything — into one day so we don’t have to carry it every day.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s mercy. Maybe people need permission. The world doesn’t let us pause much anymore.”

Jack: “We shouldn’t need permission to remember.”

Jeeny: “But we do need ritual. Humans need markers. We can’t live in a constant flow — we need punctuation marks in the story.”

Jack: (dry laugh) “Punctuation? Maybe. But I think life would read better without all the commas.”

Jeeny: “Then you’d end up breathless.”

Host: A soft silence settled — the kind that feels both empty and full. The rain slowed to a whisper, and for a moment, it seemed the world outside was listening too.

Jeeny: “You didn’t even mention your anniversary last week.”

Jack: (without lifting his eyes) “Because there’s nothing to mention.”

Jeeny: “It mattered once.”

Jack: “That’s the problem with anniversaries. They drag what mattered once into what doesn’t anymore.”

Jeeny: “It still mattered. The fact that it existed — that’s what anniversaries are for. To honor what once made us feel alive, even if it’s gone.”

Jack: “You honor ghosts, not love.”

Jeeny: “Love is a ghost, Jack. It never really leaves — it just changes its address.”

Host: The lamp light flickered again, casting soft, shifting shadows across the spines of books — Tolstoy, Eliot, Neruda — all the voices of people who once believed that memory itself could be art.

Jack: (leaning back, voice softer) “You know, when I was a kid, my mother used to celebrate every little thing. The first day of school, my father’s promotion, even the day our cat gave birth. But after he left… she stopped. Said the dates hurt too much.”

Jeeny: “That’s what happens when time turns from gift to wound. But you can’t live by erasing the calendar.”

Jack: “Maybe I can. Maybe I want to.”

Jeeny: “And then what? You wake up one morning and realize you don’t know what day it is — or who you were in it?”

Jack: “Maybe that’s peace.”

Jeeny: “No. That’s amnesia dressed as peace.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, trembling. Outside, a flash of lightning cut through the clouds, brief and brilliant — like a memory refusing to fade.

Jack: “So you keep track of every anniversary? Every loss? Every promise?”

Jeeny: “Not all. Just the ones that still breathe.”

Jack: “And how do you tell the difference?”

Jeeny: “The living ones still hurt.”

Jack: (a slow nod) “Then I guess mine are long dead.”

Jeeny: “No. Just buried under too much forgetting.”

Host: The rain returned, steady now, as though it, too, had remembered something important. The bookshelves creaked, settling like old bones.

Jeeny moved to sit across from him, folding her hands, her voice quiet but sure.

Jeeny: “Jarre didn’t say he hated anniversaries — just that he didn’t like them much. Maybe it’s not about the date. Maybe it’s about what we expect from it.”

Jack: “Expectation’s the root of disappointment.”

Jeeny: “And yet we keep hoping. We can’t help it. Maybe anniversaries aren’t meant to celebrate what’s perfect — but to acknowledge that we survived what wasn’t.”

Jack: (looking at her now) “Survival as celebration.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: He stared at her for a long moment, then finally lifted the coffee cup. It had gone cold, but he drank it anyway — a small act of acceptance, or surrender, or both.

Jack: “So what would you toast on an anniversary?”

Jeeny: “Not the date. Not the memory. Just the fact that we’re still here — still capable of remembering, still capable of love.”

Jack: “You make it sound noble.”

Jeeny: “It’s not noble. It’s necessary.”

Host: The rain began to fade, its rhythm easing into silence. The faint sound of a clock ticked somewhere in the distance — quiet, steady, relentless.

Jack looked toward the window, where the reflection of his own face blurred in the faint glow of the city.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I don’t hate anniversaries. Maybe I just hate what they remind me I’ve lost.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time to make new ones — ones that don’t ache.”

Jack: “New anniversaries?”

Jeeny: “Every sunrise deserves one.”

Host: Her smile was soft, almost invisible — like the first hint of dawn behind a mountain. For the first time that night, the heaviness in the room began to lift.

Jack exhaled — deeply, slowly — as though releasing a weight he’d been holding for years.

Host: The rain stopped. The city glimmered wet and alive. Somewhere, a street musician began playing a lonely tune on a saxophone, the notes drifting through the night like memories finding their way home.

Jeeny stood, pulling on her coat.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack — not all anniversaries are for looking back. Some are for deciding to begin again.”

Jack: (quietly) “Then maybe today can be one of those.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: She smiled, touched his shoulder gently, and stepped into the faint, wet glow of the streetlights.

Jack remained at the table, watching her silhouette fade into the rain’s silver haze.

He looked at the empty chair across from him and whispered — almost to himself —

Jack: “Happy anniversary.”

Host: And in that simple murmur — not to the past, but to the fragile persistence of the present — Jean-Michel Jarre’s sentiment found its echo:

That not every date deserves a celebration,
but every moment deserves a witness.

The lamp flickered one last time,
and the clock kept on ticking —
quiet, patient, eternal.