I have all bad days. I think I need help. I got an anger problem.

Host: The night was thick with rain, every drop a soft drumbeat on the rooftop of the abandoned diner where Jack and Jeeny sat. The neon sign outside flickered in a nervous pulse, casting a red hue over the table, over their faces, over the steam rising from untouched cups of coffee. The world outside seemed to drown in its own silence, but inside—something was about to erupt.

Jack’s hands trembled, knuckles pale against the table’s metal edge. Jeeny’s eyes, deep and still, followed him with the kind of calm that carries both fear and understanding.

Jeeny: “You’ve been quiet for a long time tonight, Jack. Too quiet.”

Jack: (his voice low, hoarse) “You ever feel like every day is just the same storm, Jeeny? Like… you wake up, and the anger’s already there—waiting for you. I read something earlier. A quote by YoungBoy Never Broke Again. He said, ‘I have all bad days. I think I need help. I got an anger problem.’ I felt that. Too much.”

Host: The rain pressed harder now, as if echoing the confession that had just fallen between them. The light from a passing car glided over Jack’s face, revealing the faint shadow of exhaustion under his eyes.

Jeeny: “He admitted he needed help, Jack. That’s not weakness. That’s the beginning of healing.”

Jack: “Healing?” (a short, bitter laugh) “People say that like it’s a destination. But anger isn’t a wound, Jeeny. It’s a fuel. The only thing that keeps you from being crushed by this world.”

Jeeny: “That’s a lie people tell themselves when they’re afraid of what’s underneath the anger. It’s not fuel—it’s a fire that eats you from the inside.”

Host: The lights flickered again. A gust of wind rattled the windows. Jack’s jaw tightened, and his voice came out sharper, colder.

Jack: “Don’t give me that poetic nonsense. Look at history. Look at every revolution, every movement that ever changed anything—anger was the spark. Without rage, there’s no change.”

Jeeny: “And without love, there’s no humanity in that change. You’re right—anger can ignite. But if it’s not guided by compassion, it becomes destruction. Think of Malcolm X. His anger woke the world, but it was his understanding that gave it meaning.”

Host: Jack’s eyes narrowed, but something flickered behind the steel-grey—a quiet recognition, quickly buried.

Jack: “You think people like me can just… choose to be calm? You think I can wake up one morning and say, ‘Let’s love the world today’? No, Jeeny. Some of us were born into fire. We learned to breathe through smoke. The world didn’t teach us patience—it taught us pain.”

Jeeny: (softly, but firm) “Pain doesn’t make you less human, Jack. But refusing to face it does. You say anger keeps you alive—fine. But does it let you live?”

Host: The question hung like mist in the air, wrapping around them both. The diner’s hum fell away, leaving only the heartbeat of rain and the faint buzz of the neon sign.

Jack: (leaning back, voice shaking slightly) “You talk like it’s easy. Like you’ve never wanted to break something just to stop the ache inside.”

Jeeny: “I’ve wanted to, Jack. More than you think. But breaking doesn’t heal—it just spreads the pieces around until everyone starts bleeding. I saw my father lose himself like that. He thought anger made him strong. But in the end, it made him empty.”

Host: Jack’s hands clenched, his fingernails digging into his palms. His breathing quickened—not out of rage, but out of remembrance. Somewhere deep, a child’s cry echoed inside him, faint but unforgotten.

Jack: “So what then? You want me to just… forgive the world? Pretend it’s all fine?”

Jeeny: “No. I want you to see that forgiveness isn’t pretending. It’s choosing not to let your anger define your truth. It’s saying, ‘You hurt me, but I’m still here—and I won’t become what broke me.’”

Jack: “That sounds like surrender.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s courage. The kind that doesn’t roar—it breathes.”

Host: The rain softened, as if the sky itself had begun to listen. The neon glow dimmed to a tired orange, painting their faces in fragile light. Jack turned away, staring at his own reflection in the window—a fractured image, split by streaks of water.

Jack: “You talk about courage like it’s some virtue carved out of hope. But hope fades. What then?”

Jeeny: “Then you keep fighting, but not with your fists. With your heart. Because one day, someone will look at you and see not your anger, but your survival.”

Host: Her voice trembled, not from fear, but from memory. Jack looked at her, for the first time really seeing—the sadness tucked behind her strength.

Jack: (quieter now) “You talk like you’ve been there.”

Jeeny: “I have. We all have. That’s why I know that anger, left alone, becomes a prison. You start locking everyone out, and soon you’re the only one inside.”

Host: The clock ticked on the wall, a slow heartbeat marking the quiet distance between them. Jack’s eyes softened—the storm behind them breaking into something that almost looked like surrender.

Jack: “You ever think maybe we don’t want to be helped? Maybe it’s easier to stay angry—because at least it feels like something.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But feelings aren’t meant to trap us, Jack. They’re meant to teach us.”

Host: Silence again. Long. Heavy. But not empty. The kind of silence that starts to heal instead of wound. Outside, the rain finally began to fade, leaving only the scent of wet earth and electric air.

Jack: “You know… when I was a kid, my old man used to yell. Always. It didn’t matter what for. He’d say he couldn’t help it—that it was just who he was. I used to believe that. Maybe I still do.”

Jeeny: “But you’re not him, Jack. You’ve already done something he never did—you’ve admitted you need help.”

Host: Jeeny reached across the table, her hand trembling slightly as it found his. The contact was brief, but it anchored something in him. A tide, long restless, finally began to settle.

Jack: “Maybe help doesn’t mean being fixed. Maybe it just means… not being alone.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Exactly.”

Host: The neon light finally died, leaving them in the soft glow of the streetlamp outside. Jack leaned back, his shoulders loosening, his breath steady. Jeeny looked out the window, where the rain had stopped, and the first faint hint of dawn began to color the sky.

Jack: “You think people like me can ever really change?”

Jeeny: “People like you are the reason change exists.”

Host: For a long moment, neither spoke. The silence was not empty now—it was full, brimming with truth and tenderness, with the quiet understanding that all bad days are just shadows waiting for light.

The camera would have pulled back here, catching the two figures framed by the window, the rain-slicked streets, the first light breaking the darkness. The world, for once, was still.

Host: And in that stillness, anger lost its shape. It became something else—human, fragile, and almost beautiful.