I have these visions of myself being thirty, thirty-five, forty

Host: The apartment was quiet, save for the low hum of the city seeping through a half-open window. Rain had stopped an hour ago, leaving the streets below shining like wet mirrors. The air smelled faintly of coffee and old books. On the sofa, a lamp cast a golden circle of light, soft and trembling, like a heartbeat that refused to rest.

Jack sat near the window, his legs stretched out, a sketchbook open on his lap. The pages were filled with half-drawn faces, unfinished dreams, and notes written in small, careful letters. Jeeny sat cross-legged on the floor, her hair falling loosely over her shoulders, a cup of tea between her hands.

On the table, a small article clipping lay — a quote from Nastassja Kinski, circled in red ink:
“I have these visions of myself being thirty, thirty-five, forty having a family.”

Jeeny: “Do you ever have visions like that, Jack? Of yourself — not at work, not chasing something, just… being?”

Jack: “Visions? No. I deal in plans, not visions. Visions are for dreamers. And dreamers end up disappointed.”

Jeeny: “That’s sad. You sound like you’ve already given up on the possibility of being happy.”

Jack: “No, I’m just realistic. The world doesn’t wait for you to build a family. You either keep up or you get left behind.”

Host: The rainlight from the streetlamps reflected in the window, painting soft patterns across Jack’s face. His eyes looked tired, not from work, but from memory.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve been running for so long you’ve forgotten where you were going. Maybe that’s why people like Kinski dreamed about being thirty or forty with a family — not because they wanted to escape, but because they wanted to arrive.”

Jack: “You make it sound like a destination. It’s not. It’s just another stage, another obligation dressed up as purpose.”

Jeeny: “That’s not true, Jack. Family isn’t an obligation. It’s a mirror. It shows you what kind of person you really are when there’s no one watching.”

Jack: “I already know who I am.”

Jeeny: “Do you? Or do you only know who you are when you’re winning?”

Host: The question hung in the air like smoke — soft, invisible, yet suffocating. Jack looked away, pretending to sketch, but his pencil didn’t move.

Jack: “You think family solves that? You think it heals whatever you can’t face alone?”

Jeeny: “Not solves, no. But it softens. It grounds you. When you’ve been chasing ghosts your whole life, sometimes the only way to stop is to hold something real.”

Jack: “And what if the ‘something real’ leaves? What if one day the family you built walks away, and you’re back where you started — only older, tired, and with more to lose?”

Jeeny: “Then you still had it, Jack. And that’s more than most people ever do. You can’t live your whole life trying to avoid pain — that’s not living, that’s hiding.”

Host: The lamplight flickered, and the sound of a passing train vibrated through the walls. Jeeny’s voice was steady, but her eyes were wet — not from sadness, but from remembering something she couldn’t say aloud.

Jeeny: “When I was younger, I used to imagine the same thing — being thirty, maybe forty, having a family. Not because I wanted to fit into someone’s idea of happiness, but because I wanted to belong somewhere. To someone.”

Jack: “And now?”

Jeeny: “Now I think it’s less about belonging, more about becoming. Family isn’t just about blood or children. It’s about connection — the kind that survives when the world stops applauding.”

Jack: “You make it sound like love’s some kind of rescue mission.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s a return. To the part of you that still believes in home.”

Host: The word “home” seemed to settle in the room like dust. It floated, gentle, but it changed the air. Jack’s eyes shifted, softened, the way light changes just before sunset.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, I used to draw houses. Not cities, not people — just houses. I think I thought if I drew them enough, I’d finally live inside one that didn’t feel like it was temporary.”

Jeeny: “And did you?”

Jack: “No. I got good at leaving them.”

Jeeny: “That’s what happens when you mistake safety for weakness, Jack. You start to run from the very thing that could save you.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked, the seconds stretching. Outside, a child’s laughter rose from the street, echoing faintly, like the voice of a future they both forgot to imagine.

Jack: “You think people like us could ever do it? Actually build something that lasts?”

Jeeny: “People like us?”

Jack: “You know — the restless, the afraid, the ones who make meaning out of motion.”

Jeeny: “Those are the only people who should. Because they know how fragile it all is. They’d cherish it.”

Host: She rose, walked toward the window, and looked out at the city — the lights, the motion, the endless repetition of tomorrow.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Kinski meant. Those visions weren’t about age, they were about faith. About believing that no matter how many roles the world gives you, there’s one that’s still yours — the one where you love and get loved back.”

Jack: “But what if you never find that?”

Jeeny: “Then you still search. You keep looking. Because the moment you stop imagining, you stop growing.”

Host: Her reflection was framed in the window, half light, half shadow — the dream of a woman who refused to let realism erase hope. Jack watched her, the lines of his face softening, like the tension was finally loosening after years of holding it too tight.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, sometimes I think I’m just too late for all that. Too much of me’s been spent on survival.”

Jeeny: “Then that means you’re finally ready for something else.”

Jack: “And what’s that?”

Jeeny: “To live, Jack. Not to chase, not to prove — just to live.”

Host: A moment of silence passed between them, thick but gentle. Outside, the city had softened into quiet, the wet streets reflecting the stars that the clouds had finally freed.

Jeeny: “Maybe one day you’ll have your own vision like Kinski’s. You’ll see yourself at forty, maybe fifty — not as a winner, but as someone who finally stopped running.”

Jack: “And maybe you’ll be in that vision too.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I already am.”

Host: The lamplight dimmed, leaving only the glow from the streetlights — a golden halo around two souls who had stopped escaping, if only for a night.

The rain began again, soft and rhythmic, as if the world itself had remembered its own heartbeat.
In that moment, they didn’t need visions of the future — because for the first time, they were living inside one.