I remember being alone a lot as a child, and I still love to be

Host: The afternoon light poured gently through the window blinds, cutting the air into soft golden stripes that danced on the wooden floor. The room was quiet — too quiet — the kind of quiet that feels alive, as if the walls themselves were listening. A faint radio hum filled the background, some old song leaking from a distant apartment, its melody half-forgotten, half-familiar.

Host: Jack sat on a worn armchair, his coat draped lazily over the side, a cup of coffee cooling in his hand. Across from him, Jeeny sat by the window, her knees drawn to her chest, her hair loose, her eyes tracing the drifting dust motes in the beam of light. Outside, a single tree swayed against the quiet city, its branches bare and honest.

Jeeny: “You know, there’s a kind of peace in silence. It’s like the world finally stops asking for something from you.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s just the absence of noise pretending to be peace.”

Host: His voice was low, steady — the kind that’s learned to hide weariness behind calm.

Jeeny: “Cindy Williams once said, ‘I remember being alone a lot as a child, and I still love to be alone.’”

Jack: “Sounds like someone who learned to survive solitude.”

Jeeny: “No — someone who learned to cherish it.”

Jack: “There’s a difference?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Survival is about endurance. Cherishing is about freedom.”

Host: The sunlight shifted slightly, sliding across Jack’s face, revealing the faint lines that time had carved — not deeply, but enough to tell stories.

Jack: “You talk about solitude like it’s sacred. But to me, it feels more like exile.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s because you’ve only known loneliness, not solitude.”

Jack: “Aren’t they the same thing?”

Jeeny: “No. Loneliness is an ache for something outside yourself. Solitude is finding everything you need inside.”

Host: A pause. The radio clicked off mid-song, leaving only the faint tick of a clock on the wall.

Jack: “When I was a kid, my parents worked nights. I’d sit by the window, listening to the wind hit the shutters, pretending it was someone knocking to come in. I used to think if I stayed awake long enough, someone would.”

Jeeny: “And did anyone?”

Jack: “No. But after a while, I stopped waiting. I started listening — to the fridge hum, to my own breathing, to the small sounds of the world existing without me. It stopped hurting.”

Jeeny: “That’s the moment you met solitude.”

Host: Her voice softened, carrying the tenderness of a truth recognized, not just spoken.

Jack: “Funny how we spend our whole lives trying not to be alone, and yet when the noise stops, it’s the only time we hear ourselves think.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Cindy meant. Some people fear being alone because it reminds them of emptiness. Others love it because it reminds them of themselves.”

Jack: “And which one are you?”

Jeeny: “Both. Some days, I crave the world. Other days, I crave its absence.”

Host: The light dimmed slightly as a cloud passed, turning the room soft and blue. The air felt slower now, as if time itself had taken a breath.

Jack: “I think people misunderstand solitude. They think it’s antisocial. But maybe it’s the only time we stop performing.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Solitude is the rehearsal space for the soul.”

Jack: “Nice line. You should write that down.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I already did.”

Host: She smiled faintly, the kind of smile that doesn’t reach the lips but glows behind the eyes.

Jack: “You ever notice how the world rewards noise? The loudest voices get heard, the busiest people get praised. No one ever applauds someone for sitting quietly.”

Jeeny: “That’s because silence doesn’t sell. But it saves.”

Jack: “Saves what?”

Jeeny: “Whatever’s left of you after the world’s done talking.”

Host: The room seemed to agree — every object, every shadow, every ray of light holding still in reverence to that sentence.

Jack: “You think people like Cindy, people who love solitude, are born that way?”

Jeeny: “No. I think they earn it. The world wounds you enough times, and you start to realize that the quiet doesn’t hurt back.”

Jack: “That’s a sad way to learn peace.”

Jeeny: “It’s the only way most of us do.”

Host: The wind outside began to pick up, making the tree sway harder, its branches tapping lightly against the windowpane — like an old rhythm, familiar and comforting.

Jack: “When I walk alone at night, I feel like I disappear. Like the world goes on, and I’m just… observing it. Invisible but free.”

Jeeny: “That’s solitude. The sweet kind — the one where you don’t need to be seen to exist.”

Jack: “But people fear that. They think if no one’s watching, they don’t matter.”

Jeeny: “And yet, the moon’s been shining every night for billions of years — and no one’s watching half the time.”

Host: Her words floated softly, almost playful, but underneath them was something deep — something like faith in stillness itself.

Jack: “You know, I think Cindy Williams was brave. To say she loved being alone — in a world that treats that like confession.”

Jeeny: “Maybe she was reminding us that aloneness isn’t emptiness. It’s space. Space to grow, to remember, to simply be.”

Jack: “You think she ever got lonely?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Even solitude has shadows. But when you’ve made peace with them, they stop scaring you.”

Host: The light began to return as the cloud drifted past. Warmth poured back into the room, coloring it again with quiet gold.

Jack: “You know, when I look back, all my happiest moments were quiet ones. Sitting by a lake. Reading alone. Fixing my bike in the garage with no music on. Maybe I was just chasing that silence all along.”

Jeeny: “Silence isn’t the absence of life, Jack. It’s the presence of being.”

Jack: “That sounds… like something I forgot to believe.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time to remember.”

Host: The radio clicked back on suddenly — static first, then a soft melody. An old song, one of those that smells like dust and nostalgia. They didn’t speak. They just listened.

Jack: “You ever wonder what we lose when we’re never alone?”

Jeeny: “Ourselves.”

Host: Jack looked toward the window, where the branches swayed lazily in rhythm with the song. The sky had softened — pale and patient. He leaned back, exhaling, as if releasing something he’d been holding for years.

Jack: “Maybe being alone isn’t the problem. Maybe it’s the stories we tell about what it means.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We treat solitude like absence, when really it’s presence — the deepest kind.”

Host: Her eyes met his — two still waters reflecting the same quiet truth.

Jack: “You know what’s strange?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “I don’t feel alone right now.”

Jeeny: “That’s the paradox. The more you embrace solitude, the less it feels like loneliness.”

Host: The camera pulled back, the room now bathed in soft gold light, the shadows long but tender. The tree outside stood still, its branches outlined against the sky like open hands.

Host: And for a moment — just a breath — time itself seemed to pause. Two people, one quiet space, and a world that had finally stopped asking for anything.

Host: In that stillness, Jack and Jeeny both understood what Cindy Williams meant: to love being alone is not to reject the world — it’s to return to yourself, and find you were never really gone.