I just love comic books. I've always loved comic book art, and I

Host: The city was caught between night and neon, the kind of in-between hour when the streets are half-empty but still humming with energy. Rain glistened on the sidewalk, reflecting the pulsing lights of comic shops and late-night diners. Inside one of those shops, tucked between a tattoo parlor and a laundromat, the smell of paper, ink, and nostalgia hung thick in the air.

Host: The store was quiet — just the soft shuffle of pages being turned, the hum of the old fridge that held sodas in glass bottles. Rows of comics lined the walls like stained-glass windows — bold colors, impossible heroes, and names written in fonts that promised escape.

Host: Jack stood by the counter, holding a worn issue of The Amazing Spider-Man, his thumb tracing a crease down the middle. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against a display rack, the soft glow of a nearby lamp catching the edge of her hair.

Host: The radio above the cash register played softly, a snippet from an interview drifting through static — the unmistakable accent and warmth of a familiar voice:

“I just love comic books. I’ve always loved comic book art, and I just think it’s amazing.” — Zayn Malik

Host: The words felt out of place in the quiet — simple, sincere, and somehow sacred.

Jeeny: smiling softly “You ever notice how people say that word — ‘amazing’ — like it’s small? But in his voice, it sounds like worship.”

Jack: half-grinning “Maybe that’s because it is. You don’t grow up on comics without learning how to believe in something bigger than yourself.”

Jeeny: looking around the shop “Bigger than yourself — but drawn by someone human. That’s the part I love. Real people made all this magic with pencils and deadlines.”

Jack: nodding “Yeah. People who didn’t have superpowers, but still created them.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Which kind of makes them superheroes too, doesn’t it?”

Jack: quietly “Yeah. The invisible kind.”

Host: The rain picked up, tapping the shop window in a steady rhythm. Jack turned another page; the colors seemed to move under his fingers, bold and alive even after decades.

Jeeny: “When I was a kid, my brother used to read X-Men to me at night. I didn’t care about the fighting — I loved the parts where they just wanted to belong. You know, the weirdness, the misfits.”

Jack: softly “The human part.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Everyone talks about powers, but the best ones weren’t about strength — they were about difference. About finding meaning in being an outsider.”

Jack: nodding slowly “That’s why the good ones stick with you. They don’t tell you who to be — they tell you it’s okay to be who you already are.”

Jeeny: smiling “And that’s the real magic.”

Host: A thunderclap rolled through the city, distant but deep. The lights in the shop flickered once, casting momentary shadows of capes and heroes across the walls.

Jack: “You think that’s why Zayn loves it? The art, I mean. It’s a kind of freedom. You can draw anything — and the rules don’t apply.”

Jeeny: softly “Freedom, sure. But it’s also control. In comics, the artist decides the universe — who wins, who loses, who gets redeemed. Maybe that’s the appeal: creating a world that’s kinder than the one you live in.”

Jack: grinning faintly “Or one that fights back.”

Jeeny: “Yeah. One where the villains get caught, the heroes heal, and everyone’s pain has a purpose.”

Jack: looking at her thoughtfully “You talk like someone who’s been saving the world in secret.”

Jeeny: smiling “Maybe I’m just trying to find a better one.”

Host: The rain eased, turning into a faint mist that blurred the reflections of passing cars. Somewhere down the street, a siren wailed softly, then faded.

Jack: closing the comic “You ever notice how these stories never really end? They reboot, they retell, they reinvent. Heroes die, come back, change faces, but the core stays the same — courage, pain, purpose.”

Jeeny: nodding “Because that’s life, isn’t it? We keep rebooting ourselves. Every heartbreak, every mistake — a new issue.”

Jack: half-laughing “Yeah, but no one gives you a cover artist to make it look heroic.”

Jeeny: smirking “No, but you still get to be the writer.”

Jack: softly “If you survive the plot twist.”

Host: The shopkeeper, an old man with ink-stained fingers, looked up from behind the counter. His glasses reflected the comic panels he’d been sorting.

Shopkeeper: quietly, to no one in particular “That’s the thing about comics. They remind you — no matter how many times the world falls apart, someone’s always trying to put it back together.”

Host: Jeeny smiled, glancing toward him like she’d heard something ancient in his tone.

Jeeny: “He’s right, you know. Maybe that’s why we never stop reading them. They keep teaching us how to rebuild.”

Jack: softly “And how to forgive.”

Jeeny: nodding “Even ourselves.”

Host: A faint buzz from the fluorescent light filled the space as the two of them lingered, surrounded by the faces of heroes — some bold, some broken, all drawn with purpose.

Jack: after a long pause “It’s strange, isn’t it? You look at these panels — bright colors, clear lines — and you realize they’re stories about survival, disguised as fantasy.”

Jeeny: softly “Because sometimes truth needs a mask.”

Jack: looking up at her “You think that’s why people still love them?”

Jeeny: smiling “I think that’s why people need them.”

Host: The camera would pan out now — the comic shop glowing warm against the rain-slicked street, the neon OPEN sign flickering faintly, like a heartbeat refusing to stop.

Host: Inside, Jack and Jeeny remained among the shelves, holding pages filled with impossible worlds and improbable hope.

Host: And as they stood there — two ordinary souls in a world that had forgotten how to believe — Zayn Malik’s words seemed to echo through the flicker of rain and light:

that loving art isn’t childish,
it’s courageous —

that to keep finding awe in creation
is to keep your humanity intact,

and that sometimes, the most heroic thing you can do
is simply believe in wonder
long after the world has stopped trying.

Host: The rain started again, soft and silver, as the lights dimmed inside the shop.
And through the glass, the two of them stood —
part dreamers, part survivors —
still believing in amazing things.