I think, for one, we have to really accept that anger is a normal

Host: The sky above the city burned a deep, stormy crimson — the kind of twilight that feels like a held breath before a storm. The wind whispered through cracked windows, carrying the scent of metal, smoke, and memory. Inside a nearly empty bar, the light was low and amber, a few candles trembling on wooden tables, their flames swaying like uneasy souls.

Jack sat with his back to the window, his fingers drumming the table in slow, rhythmic beats. His jawline was tight, his eyes restless — grey like a coming tempest. Across from him, Jeeny’s hands rested around a glass of water, the light bending through it to dance on her skin. Her expression was calm, but her gaze sharp with quiet fire.

For a moment, neither spoke. Then Jeeny broke the silence, her voice soft but deliberate, carrying the gravity of a thought that had lived long inside her.

Jeeny: “Koren Zailckas once said — ‘I think, for one, we have to really accept that anger is a normal human emotion that can be a positive force for change.’”

Jack: “Anger… a positive force?” He gave a low, humorless laugh, eyes narrowing. “That’s like calling fire a cleansing tool while your house burns down. Anger destroys, Jeeny. It’s raw, irrational, and blind. It doesn’t change the world — it burns it.”

Host: The rain began to fall, soft at first, then with increasing fury. Each drop on the windowpane shimmered like a tiny spark in the dark. Jeeny’s eyes followed the motion, then returned to Jack, unwavering.

Jeeny: “You see destruction, Jack. I see ignition. Anger is what lights the torch in a dark room. Without it, injustice survives. Every revolution began with fury. Every change was born from someone who said, ‘Enough.’ Think of the civil rights movement — Rosa Parks’ refusal wasn’t born from calm; it was born from anger that refused to bow.”

Jack: “And yet, that same anger has built wars, torn nations, and ended lives. The same fire that sparks revolutions also burns civilizations. You praise it like it’s holy, but it’s just instinct — unrefined and dangerous.”

Jeeny: “Dangerous, yes. But necessary. You can’t silence it just because it scares you. Anger is like pain — it tells you something’s wrong. Without it, people would accept everything. It’s the pulse of conscience, Jack.”

Host: The candlelight flickered across their faces — his, hard and angular; hers, soft but luminous with conviction. The sound of rain grew louder, drowning out the music from the distant jukebox.

Jack: “Then tell me, Jeeny — where does it end? You justify anger, but anger feeds itself. You protest today, you riot tomorrow. The world drowns in fury because everyone believes their rage is righteous.”

Jeeny: “There’s a difference between rage and anger, Jack. Rage consumes. Anger transforms. Martin Luther King’s voice, the voices of women marching for equality, the youth of every generation shouting for climate justice — that’s not chaos. That’s evolution.”

Jack: “You’re romanticizing emotion. Anger makes people irrational. It blinds them to dialogue, turns them into mobs. You can’t build anything lasting on emotion.”

Jeeny: “But you can’t build humanity without it either. Logic gives structure, yes — but emotion gives it meaning. Anger doesn’t have to be wild; it can be focused, disciplined. Gandhi was angry — he just turned his anger inward, refined it into action instead of violence.”

Host: The wind outside howled, slamming against the door, making the candles flutter dangerously. Jack’s hands clenched. For a moment, his eyes drifted to the floor, then back up — not with mockery now, but with something heavier.

Jack: “You talk about anger like it’s art. But what about the man who loses control? The one who strikes his child, who yells at his wife, who blames the world because he’s broken inside? Is that sacred too? Or is that the same ‘positive force’ you believe in?”

Jeeny: “No. That’s not anger — that’s pain, misplaced. That’s what happens when people are taught to fear their emotions instead of understanding them. If we taught people to accept their anger — to own it, to listen to it — maybe it wouldn’t explode that way.”

Host: The rain paused for a heartbeat — a momentary silence, as if the world itself waited for an answer. Jack’s face softened, but only slightly, like a wall with a hairline crack.

Jack: “So, you’d have everyone embrace their fury? March into the streets whenever something feels wrong?”

Jeeny: “Not embrace — channel. There’s power in righteous anger. Think of Malala Yousafzai. She was furious at the way girls were silenced, but she turned that fury into education, into voice. Anger gave her courage — not hatred. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “You think every heart knows that difference? Most people can’t tell when they’ve crossed from passion into destruction. Anger blinds the poor, manipulates the desperate, fuels tyrants as much as it frees rebels.”

Jeeny: “Then teach them to see, Jack! Don’t bury the flame — guide it. The problem isn’t anger; it’s ignorance. Suppress it, and it festers. Accept it, and it can illuminate. Even you — tell me, haven’t you ever done something brave because you were angry?”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened again, his fingers tapping faster. He didn’t answer immediately. A distant thunderclap rolled over the horizon. His voice, when it came, was lower — almost a confession.

Jack: “Once. When my father was dying and the doctors stopped caring. I yelled, fought, forced them to keep him alive another week. I thought I’d lost control. But maybe… maybe you’re right. Maybe that was something else.”

Jeeny: “That was love wearing anger’s mask, Jack. That’s what I mean. It’s not evil. It’s human.”

Host: The light from the street outside flashed as lightning broke across the sky, briefly revealing their faces — two silhouettes against the pulse of a storm. The air between them was electric, charged not just by nature, but by understanding.

Jack: “So, anger is love now?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. Sometimes it’s grief, or justice, or fear — but always human. That’s why Zailckas was right. The moment we stop fearing anger, we start using it.”

Jack: “And yet, anger without wisdom kills.”

Jeeny: “And wisdom without passion withers.”

Host: Their words collided — sharp, alive, and burning — then slowly began to soften, like two storms merging into one current. The rain eased, tapping gently now, like a heartbeat slowing after a fight.

Jack: “Maybe I’ve been too afraid of it. I’ve seen what anger can do, Jeeny. I’ve watched it tear families apart. But maybe it’s not the anger that’s the enemy — maybe it’s what we hide behind it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Anger isn’t the wound — it’s the body’s cry for healing. We should listen.”

Host: The barlight dimmed, leaving them in half-darkness. Jack leaned forward, his eyes calm now, no longer filled with storm but with thought.

Jack: “So, what do we do with it? This fire we all carry?”

Jeeny: “We learn its language. We let it move us, but not consume us. We let it speak — and then we turn it into action.”

Host: A long silence. Outside, the rain stopped completely. The air smelled of wet earth and renewal. Jack exhaled, a slow, resigned breath, and a faint smile tugged at the edge of his lips.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the fire isn’t meant to be put out. Maybe it’s meant to be tempered — like steel.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Steel is forged in flame, Jack. So are people.”

Host: The camera of the night pulled back slowly. The two of them sat in the fading light, the storm behind them now only a whisper. The candles burned steadier, their flames no longer trembling.

In that moment, anger had become something else — not fury, not chaos, but a quiet, steady force — like heat in a forger’s hand, shaping something strong, human, and real.

Jack raised his glass slightly, his voice soft, almost reverent.

Jack: “To anger — the honest teacher.”

Jeeny: “And to change — its student.”

Host: The scene faded into the sound of dripping rainwater, the faint glow of rekindled light, and two souls who had finally learned that anger, when understood, is not the fire that destroys — but the spark that begins.