I had always sung in choirs. Even when it was something to be

Host: The school auditorium smelled of old wood, dust, and memory — that scent of echoes that never quite leave. The stage lights were still on, burning low and warm against the drawn red curtains, casting long shadows over the empty rows of seats. Outside, faint traces of snow floated through the windows, melting as soon as they touched the glass.

Jack sat on the edge of the stage, his hands resting loosely on his knees, his eyes distant, watching nothing and everything at once. Beside him, Jeeny perched cross-legged, a thin scarf wrapped around her shoulders, her voice quiet but alive with something tender.

Jeeny: (softly) “Scott Weiland once said, ‘I had always sung in choirs. Even when it was something to be laughed at or made fun of, you know, in school. And I was always the kid who was picked at the Christmas concert to sing the solo, you know, while the other kids snickered in the front few rows.’”

Host: Her words hung in the still air like the last note of a hymn — clear, fragile, and unwilling to fade. Jack looked up toward the old ceiling fans, their blades motionless, like time itself had stopped listening.

Jack: “Funny how people laugh at what they secretly wish they could do.”

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) “Or what they don’t understand. It’s easier to mock what makes someone different than admit you don’t have the courage to be it.”

Host: A draft slipped through the cracks of the side door, fluttering the sheet music that lay scattered on the floor. The papers whispered like ghosts of songs once sung here — childhood voices caught in the amber of memory.

Jack: “I was that kid too. The one who didn’t fit the mold. While everyone else was busy trying to blend in, I kept sticking out.”

Jeeny: (gently teasing) “And now?”

Jack: “Now I pretend I don’t care that I still do.”

Host: She laughed quietly, the sound echoing softly in the empty space — a sound that felt alive enough to stir even the sleeping dust.

Jeeny: “You know, that quote — it’s not really about fame or music. It’s about resilience. About standing alone while the crowd laughs and still doing what you were made to do.”

Jack: “Even if it hurts?”

Jeeny: “Especially if it hurts.”

Host: The light above them flickered, the way old bulbs do when they’ve seen too many years. Jeeny leaned back, her eyes on the darkened auditorium.

Jeeny: “You ever think about how cruel kids can be? But also how pure? They don’t hide their judgment — they just throw it like stones, and you learn to build a wall out of the bruises.”

Jack: (quietly) “Yeah. And sometimes that wall turns into a stage.”

Host: Her gaze met his, steady, knowing.

Jeeny: “Exactly. Maybe that’s what Weiland was really saying — that those snickers became his fuel. Every laugh pushed him closer to the microphone.”

Jack: “Pain as rehearsal.”

Jeeny: “And performance as redemption.”

Host: The wind outside picked up, pressing faintly against the windows. Jack stood, walking slowly toward the piano at the corner of the stage. Its black lacquer surface was dulled by years of fingerprints and time. He pressed a key — low, hesitant — and the sound echoed through the empty room like the start of confession.

Jack: “You know, when you sing in front of people, you’re naked. There’s nowhere to hide. It’s not just your voice they’re hearing — it’s your fear, your longing, your hunger to be understood.”

Jeeny: “That’s why most people don’t sing. Not because they can’t. But because they don’t want to be seen.”

Host: She walked to join him, resting her hand on the piano lid.

Jeeny: “But the ones who do — the ones who sing anyway — they save something in all of us. They remind us that vulnerability can sound beautiful.”

Jack: (softly) “You think that’s what kept him singing? Weiland?”

Jeeny: “I think that’s what keeps all of us singing. Even when it hurts. Even when no one listens.”

Host: Jack pressed another key — this time higher, softer — a note that hung between them like a held breath.

Jeeny: (quietly) “You ever notice how the people who laugh at dreamers eventually end up listening to them on the radio?”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Yeah. Life has a way of turning ridicule into rhythm.”

Host: The light dimmed further, leaving only the soft glow of the exit sign and the shimmer of the snow outside. Jeeny sat beside him on the bench, their shoulders touching.

Jeeny: “The soloist always stands alone. But they sing for everyone who’s too afraid to.”

Jack: “So, the laughter — the mocking — it’s just the world’s way of asking for courage in disguise.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And maybe every artist is born in that moment — not when they’re applauded, but when they’re laughed at.”

Host: The piano fell silent. The air felt sacred now — filled not with music, but the weight of understanding.

Jack: “You ever think maybe all that ridicule was worth it? Every lonely moment, every cracked note, every sneer?”

Jeeny: “If it leads you to truth — always.”

Host: A long pause. Then, almost imperceptibly, Jack began to hum. It was low, raw, imperfect — the kind of sound that lives somewhere between memory and emotion. Jeeny closed her eyes, letting it wash over her like forgiveness.

When he stopped, the room was silent except for the whisper of snow against glass.

Jeeny: “That’s why he sang, Jack. Because the music doesn’t ask if you’re ready. It just asks if you’re willing.”

Jack: “And what do you think he was saying when he sang?”

Jeeny: (softly) “He was saying — ‘You can laugh, but I’ll still be heard.’”

Host: The camera widened — two figures on an old stage, surrounded by the ghosts of laughter and applause, both real and imagined. The world outside blurred in snowfall, the glow of streetlights like faint halos.

Host: Because every artist, like every human being, begins as the child who stood alone while others laughed.
And in that moment, they learned what every great voice eventually learns:
that mockery fades, but music endures.

That the laughter of others is just the harmony that makes courage sound clearer.

Jack: (quietly, to Jeeny) “You think it’s still worth singing?”

Jeeny: (smiling through the quiet) “Always. Especially when they’re laughing.”

Host: The camera lingered — the piano, the empty seats, the soft hum of something eternal.

And as the snow continued to fall,
their voices rose — not loud, not perfect,
but unafraid.

Because in the end, every song worth singing
begins with the courage to sing alone.