I want to buy my mom a house; I want my family to never have to

Host: The night was thick with neon and music. From the windows of the small recording studio, the city lights bled like liquid fire, reflecting off the wet asphalt. A soft drizzle fell, tapping the rooftop in a steady rhythm, as if keeping time with the beat pulsing from inside. Jack sat near the mixer, a cigarette in his hand, the smoke curling into the dim air. Jeeny leaned by the piano, her fingers tracing the keys without pressing them — as though she could hear the music in her mind alone.

Jeeny: “You know what she said, Jack? ‘I want to buy my mom a house; I want my family to never have to worry about anything. And I just want to have an amazing career in music, because I love to do it.’”

Jack: “Yeah. Ashthon Jones. I remember that quote. Sounds noble — and naïve.”

Host: The hum of the amplifier filled the silence that followed, a thin thread of electric air.

Jeeny: “Naïve? You call love naïve now?”

Jack: “Not love. Dreams. People love a dream until it breaks their teeth. Until rent’s due, until the labels start saying no. I’ve seen people with voices like angels end up serving coffee to people who never even looked up from their phones.”

Jeeny: “But she wasn’t talking about fame, Jack. She was talking about purpose — about lifting her family, about creating something that feeds her soul.”

Host: The studio lights flickered. Jack’s eyes, grey and tired, narrowed through the smoke.

Jack: “Purpose doesn’t pay bills. You think passion will buy her mother that house? You think love will keep the electricity on? In the real world, it’s about strategy, not sentiment.”

Jeeny: “And yet, the world you describe sounds like a cage — all logic, no light. Maybe her love for music is the very thing that will build that house, Jack. People who believe that deeply often make it real.”

Jack: “Belief doesn’t change math, Jeeny. For every one artist who makes it, there are ten thousand who don’t. You ever walk down Nashville Boulevard at midnight? The bars are full of broken dreamers still singing, still hoping, while their families back home wait for money that never comes.”

Jeeny: “But those same bars are where souls are born, Jack. Where truth still breathes. Maybe you only see failure, but I see faith — the kind that refuses to die. Think of Whitney Houston, or Aretha Franklin — women who sang not because they had to, but because they couldn’t live without it.”

Host: Jack’s hand tightened around his cigarette, the ash finally falling into the tray like grey snow. The rain outside had grown heavier, a steady drumbeat against the glass.

Jack: “Faith is beautiful until it breaks you. Until you realize that the system doesn’t care about your heart, only your numbers. The industry doesn’t run on love, Jeeny — it runs on profit.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s not the industry that matters. Maybe it’s what’s left of the person when the industry is done with them. Maybe Ashthon knew that the success she wanted wasn’t just charts or awards, but peace — a way to let her mother sleep without worry, to make music that outlives her.”

Host: Silence again. The kind that feels alive, like the pause between thunder and lightning. Jack’s face softened, but only slightly.

Jack: “You talk about peace as if it’s free. It isn’t. Every artist pays for it — in time, in tears, in sacrifices no one sees. How many mothers would trade their child’s dreams for their presence? How many families are broken by ambition disguised as love?”

Jeeny: “Ambition doesn’t have to destroy, Jack. It can build. I think what she meant was balance — to work hard, to give, and to still love what you do. Isn’t that what we all want? To leave something beautiful behind while still holding the people we love?”

Jack: “And if that’s impossible?”

Jeeny: “Then we still try. Because not trying is worse. Not trying is death before death.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice had grown sharper, her eyes glimmering with anger and pain. Jack, for a moment, said nothing. The music in the background — a half-finished track — played softly, a haunting melody that felt like memory itself.

Jack: “You sound like my sister.”

Jeeny: “Was she a singer?”

Jack: “She was… once. She wanted to be the next Norah Jones. Spent every dollar she had on recording her first EP. But when the labels ignored her, she started teaching, said she’d try again next year. She never did. She called it being ‘practical.’ I call it giving up.”

Jeeny: “Maybe she just grew tired, Jack. Maybe dreams don’t die — they just change shape. She still used her music, right? She still shared it, even if it wasn’t on a stage.”

Jack: “You’re too forgiving.”

Jeeny: “No, I’m just not blind to the value of the heart. The world needs people who still believe in what they love, even when the odds are cruel. Because without that, there’s no progress, no beauty, no art.”

Host: A light flickered across Jeeny’s face, catching the tears she hadn’t realized had fallen. Jack looked away, his jaw tightening, his heart caught somewhere between memory and regret.

Jack: “You think love of music can save the world?”

Jeeny: “No. But it can save one soul at a time. Maybe that’s enough.”

Jack: “And what about the house? The family? The security? You think love alone builds those?”

Jeeny: “No. But love makes the work worth it. Without love, all we build are walls.”

Host: The rain had softened now, the city’s hum returning — a low buzz of life and neon. The smoke in the room thinned, leaving only the smell of ash and hope.

Jeeny: “You know, when I was little, my father used to say — ‘We work to live, but we dream to matter.’ That’s all Ashthon meant. She wasn’t buying a house for status, but for peace. For her mother’s smile. For a quiet morning without fear.”

Jack: “You always turn everything into poetry.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because the world stops being cruel when you start listening to its poetry.”

Host: Jack laughed, low and hoarse, a sound half bitter, half tender.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe that’s why I keep coming back here. Maybe I still believe in something too, even if I don’t admit it.”

Jeeny: “Then admit it now.”

Jack: “Alright. Maybe — just maybe — love and logic can live in the same room.”

Jeeny: “They already do, Jack. They always have.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked, slow and steady. Jack stubbed out his cigarette, and for the first time in hours, the air felt clear.

The track on the computer reached its end, but neither of them moved to stop it. The screen’s glow painted them in soft blue, two souls suspended between dream and duty, love and survival.

Jeeny: “You know, we could finish this song.”

Jack: “Yeah. We could.”

Host: And as they turned toward the piano, the first chord rose, fragile and pure, like a promise whispered into the dark. Outside, the rain had stopped — but the street still shimmered, as if the world itself was listening.

End Scene.