I woke up one day, and for some reason all the hate and anger was

Host: The city lay half-asleep under a blanket of midnight mist, its streetlights flickering like tired eyes that refused to close. The air was cold, heavy with the scent of rain that hadn’t yet fallen — a strange calm before an unnamed storm.

Down by the river, the bridge lights shimmered against the dark water. A bench stood at its edge, half-drowned in shadow, half-bathed in the pale glow of a passing streetlamp. That’s where Jack sat, collar turned up against the wind, a cigarette burning low between his fingers — a small ember of rebellion refusing to die.

Jeeny approached quietly, her footsteps soft on the damp pavement. She stopped beside him, looking out at the slow-moving current, the water reflecting the fractured lights of the sleeping city.

Jeeny: (softly) “Ronnie Radke once said, ‘I woke up one day, and for some reason all the hate and anger was gone.’”

Jack: (without turning) “That’s cute. Sounds like something people say after therapy and a good night’s sleep.”

Jeeny: (sitting beside him) “Or maybe it’s what happens when the soul finally gets tired of carrying its own poison.”

Jack: (smirking faintly) “You make it sound poetic. But anger’s not poison. It’s armor. It keeps you sharp.”

Jeeny: “Sharp, maybe. But lonely too.”

Host: A train horn wailed in the distance — long, low, mournful. The wind picked up, carrying the sound through the metal ribs of the bridge like a ghost whispering its own regrets.

Jack: “You know what hate does? It gives structure. It keeps you standing when nothing else will. You strip it away, and what’s left? Softness? Vulnerability?”

Jeeny: “Humanity.”

Jack: (laughing under his breath) “You really think people wake up and just... let it go? Hate doesn’t vanish. It calcifies. It builds monuments.”

Jeeny: “Only if you feed it. But hate starves in the presence of understanding.”

Jack: “Understanding’s overrated. I’ve seen people ruin themselves trying to understand the ones who hurt them.”

Jeeny: “That’s not understanding, Jack. That’s attachment. There’s a difference.”

Host: The river shimmered, its surface disturbed by the wind, ripples catching light and shadow alike. Jeeny’s face reflected faintly in the water — calm, resolute — while Jack’s cigarette ember glowed like a heartbeat in the dark.

Jack: “I used to think anger was honesty. At least when I was mad, I was real. Everything else felt fake — small talk, apologies, forgiveness. All theater.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But hate’s a performance too, Jack — one that drains you every time you rehearse it.”

Jack: (pausing) “So what, you think love’s the cure-all?”

Jeeny: “No. I think forgiveness is the release valve.”

Jack: “Forgiveness? That’s just surrender in a prettier costume.”

Jeeny: “No. Surrender’s giving up control. Forgiveness is taking it back.”

Host: The rain began, softly at first — the kind that doesn’t fall so much as it drifts, whispering against coats and hair and memory.

Jeeny pulled her coat tighter. Jack flicked his cigarette into the water, watching the small orange light hiss and vanish into the dark.

Jack: “You ever felt it? Real hate?”

Jeeny: “Yes.”

Jack: “Then you know it never leaves.”

Jeeny: “It does. Slowly. Quietly. Like grief. One morning, you wake up and realize the weight’s gone. You don’t even notice it leaving — you just notice the silence it leaves behind.”

Jack: “And that silence doesn’t scare you?”

Jeeny: “At first, it does. Because you’ve built yourself around pain. It becomes your compass, your excuse, your reason for being. But when it’s gone… you start to see yourself without it. And that’s terrifying.”

Jack: “Terrifying because you might actually have to live again.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The wind howled, catching the edges of their words and scattering them into the dark like fragile pieces of confession. The rain grew heavier now, drumming on the metal railings, turning every sound into rhythm — like the heartbeat of the night itself.

Jack: (quietly) “I used to hate my father. Every word he said felt like an accusation. Every silence, a punishment. And when he died, I thought the hate would die too. But it didn’t. It just… sat there. Festering.”

Jeeny: (softly) “And now?”

Jack: “Now… I think I miss him. Which is worse.”

Jeeny: “It’s not worse. It’s healing.”

Jack: “You think missing someone you hated is healing?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s honesty. The kind hate doesn’t allow.”

Host: A car passed on the bridge above, its headlights slicing briefly through the rain. The moment it vanished, the two of them were left again in the fragile intimacy of darkness — raw, unfiltered.

Jack: “So maybe Ronnie was right. Maybe one day you just wake up and it’s gone. But not because you chose it — because you finally ran out of strength to keep carrying it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Hate burns hot, but it’s not sustainable. Eventually, it consumes its own fuel.”

Jack: “And what’s left?”

Jeeny: “Peace. Not joy, not bliss — just... peace. The kind that doesn’t need to prove itself.”

Jack: (looking at her) “You make it sound like redemption.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. But redemption doesn’t come in grand gestures. It comes in small awakenings — like the one Radke described. You don’t plan it. It just... happens. One morning, you realize you’re done being your own jailer.”

Host: The rain softened again, as though the sky itself were exhaling. Jeeny reached out and brushed the droplets from her hair. Jack watched her for a long moment, his expression unreadable — a man standing at the edge of surrender, unsure if the fall would kill or free him.

Jack: “You know, I’ve spent half my life angry at people who never even noticed. And the other half angry at myself for letting them stay.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe tomorrow’s the morning you wake up lighter.”

Jack: “You think it’s that simple?”

Jeeny: “Simple? No. But possible? Always.”

Host: The rain stopped completely. A thin mist rose from the river, swirling like memory. Somewhere in the distance, a clock tower chimed midnight — slow, deliberate, cleansing.

Jeeny stood, looking down at him, her eyes warm but unyielding.

Jeeny: “You can’t rush peace, Jack. You can only stop resisting it.”

Jack: “And what if I don’t know how?”

Jeeny: “Then start by being tired enough to try.”

Host: She walked a few steps away, her silhouette dissolving into the fog, her words lingering like the last echo of a prayer.

Jack remained on the bench, staring at the water, at his own reflection rippling there — fractured, fluid, unfamiliar.

He breathed in — deeply, fully — and for the first time in years, there was no bitterness on the exhale.

No edge. No fire. Just quiet.

And in that quiet, Ronnie Radke’s words took form not as a miracle, but as truth —

That hate is not conquered by force,
but outgrown by exhaustion,
that anger fades when its purpose ends,
and that one morning, without warning,
you wake up,
and realize the war inside you
has finally gone silent.

Host: The city stirred again, faint and distant. The mist began to lift.
And on that lonely bridge, Jack smiled — small, almost imperceptible —
like a man who had just discovered
what peace tastes like.