I suppose being fierce is a very good thing, and a very cool

Host: The skyline of the city glowed like a wounded constellation — towers veined with light, windows flickering against the slow breath of night. Down below, the ice rink sat under a glass dome, empty now except for the soft whir of machines smoothing its surface. The world felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for something to be born again.

On the edge of the rink, Jack sat on a bench, his hands clasped, his breath visible in the chill. Jeeny stood on the ice, skates gleaming, her posture upright, her eyes bright with something fierce and fragile all at once.

They were both quiet for a while — the kind of quiet that feels like two storms circling each other before colliding.

Jeeny: “Johnny Weir once said, ‘I suppose being fierce is a very good thing, and a very cool thing. But more than fierce, I think I'm a strong person and a strong individual. And that's what I take with me every day.’”

Jack: (smirks faintly) “Of course he did. The man wore sequins on the ice and stared down the entire judging committee without blinking. Fierce barely covers it.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly what I love about him. Everyone saw the glitter, but not the gravity. He wasn’t trying to impress — he was trying to exist.”

Jack: “Existence and performance are different things, Jeeny. Some people hide behind fierce because they’re terrified of breaking.”

Jeeny: (gliding across the ice) “And some people break because they never learned how to be fierce.”

Host: The sound of her blades slicing through the ice was sharp and rhythmic — like the echo of conviction cutting through silence. Jack’s gaze followed her movements, steady, half-admiring, half-defensive.

Jack: “You really think fierceness equals strength?”

Jeeny: “No. I think fierceness is the surface. Strength is what’s underneath — the thing you carry when no one’s clapping.”

Jack: “Then why celebrate fierceness at all?”

Jeeny: “Because sometimes that’s the only language the world listens to. You shout, you shine, you dazzle — just to be taken seriously. You fight to be seen before you can be understood.”

Host: The rink lights dimmed, leaving only a halo of white around Jeeny’s figure. Her shadow stretched long and lonely across the smooth ice, like a scar that had learned how to glow.

Jack: “So what — we’re supposed to armor ourselves in sparkle? Pretend strength until it sticks?”

Jeeny: “Not pretend. Embody. Fierce isn’t fake. It’s chosen. It’s the performance you give when the world would rather you sit quietly in the dark.”

Jack: “That’s exhausting.”

Jeeny: “So is silence.”

Host: A soft hum filled the space — the maintenance machine finishing its last lap. Jeeny coasted to the edge of the rink and leaned against the barrier, her breath fogging the glass. Jack’s reflection appeared beside hers — solid, still, unshakably skeptical.

Jack: “You admire people like him — flamboyant, defiant, unapologetic. But not everyone gets to be that free. The world punishes anyone who stands out too much.”

Jeeny: “And yet, people like Johnny Weir do it anyway. That’s what makes them strong. Strength isn’t hiding from punishment; it’s surviving it without becoming bitter.”

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It isn’t. It’s lonely. It’s terrifying. But it’s honest.”

Host: The lights flickered, casting ripples of color across the glass — blue, pink, silver — reflections of both defiance and dream.

Jack: “Maybe I just don’t believe in performance as power. I think strength is in endurance, not expression. You endure, you adapt, you outlast.”

Jeeny: “And I think strength is in visibility. You endure by being seen. You adapt by refusing to disappear.”

Jack: “You think being seen makes you strong?”

Jeeny: “No. But hiding makes you weak.”

Host: The air between them sharpened — charged with the friction of two philosophies colliding. Jeeny’s eyes burned with quiet rage; Jack’s jaw tightened in quiet restraint.

Jack: “You know, people used to call strength something else. Stoicism. Discipline. Holding yourself together. Now everyone wants to feel everything all the time.”

Jeeny: “Because for centuries, feeling was forbidden. Especially for anyone who didn’t fit the mold. People like Weir had to feel loudly just to remind others they were alive.”

Jack: “And look where that got him — criticized, ridiculed, marginalized.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And still unbroken. That’s strength, Jack. Not the kind that doesn’t fall — the kind that falls publicly, gets mocked, and still stands back up with eyeliner on.”

Host: A low chuckle escaped Jack, half surrender, half admiration. The cold air softened between them, like ice beginning to thaw.

Jack: “You think I’m too cold, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “I think you’re afraid that if you stop being cold, you’ll melt.”

Jack: (pauses) “You might be right.”

Jeeny: “Fierce isn’t always about noise, Jack. Sometimes it’s the quiet kind. The kind that wakes up every day knowing the world doesn’t understand you — and still goes out anyway.”

Jack: “So you think strength is… surviving visibility?”

Jeeny: “Strength is surviving yourself.”

Host: The silence that followed was deep, electric. Jack stood, walking toward the edge of the rink, his breath steady, his eyes reflecting the faint glow of the ice.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I used to envy people like that. The ones who didn’t care what others thought. But I always wondered if that confidence was real — or just armor.”

Jeeny: “Who cares? Armor still keeps you alive.”

Jack: “But it also keeps you alone.”

Jeeny: “So does fear.”

Host: The ice machine shut off, and a thick silence settled — heavy, intimate. The cold clung to their breaths, to the edges of their words. Jeeny looked at him, her expression softening, her voice quieter now, almost tender.

Jeeny: “Johnny Weir wasn’t just fierce. He was self-defined. He decided what cool meant — not the world. That’s what strength really is: the right to define yourself every day, no matter how many people try to rewrite you.”

Jack: “And what do you call that? Pride?”

Jeeny: “No. Freedom.”

Jack: “Freedom sounds lonely too.”

Jeeny: “It is. But it’s the kind of loneliness that makes you strong.”

Host: The ice glistened beneath the dim lights — a sheet of frozen silver that reflected both their faces: hers open, luminous; his shadowed, contemplative.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? When I look at you right now — talking like that — you remind me of him. Fierce, yes. But something else too. Grounded.”

Jeeny: “That’s what strength looks like, Jack. It’s not fire — it’s gravity.”

Jack: (quietly) “Then maybe I’ve been confusing stillness with strength all along.”

Jeeny: “Stillness is part of it. But strength is choosing to move anyway.”

Host: A faint song began playing from the speakers — an old instrumental piece, soft and haunting. The notes lingered in the air, echoing across the empty rink like ghosts learning how to breathe.

Jack: “You know, I used to think being strong meant not needing anyone.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think it means knowing when to let someone skate beside you.”

Jeeny: (smiles, extending a hand) “Then come on, Mr. Stoic. Let’s see if you can handle the ice.”

Host: He hesitated — just a second — then took her hand. His steps were awkward, his balance uncertain, but his laugh was real. Jeeny guided him, the two of them gliding slowly, clumsily, beautifully, beneath the pale light.

For once, Jack didn’t argue. He just moved — awkwardly, imperfectly, but alive.

Host: Above them, the glass dome reflected the city’s light, the faint shimmer of the moon, and two figures circling the ice — one fierce, one quiet, both learning that strength isn’t always about resistance.

Sometimes, it’s about grace.

And as the music swelled, their footprints began to fade behind them — not erased, just softened — like proof that being strong doesn’t mean leaving no trace. It means having the courage to move, knowing the ice will remember you.