I won't eat anything green.

Host: The rain fell like restless fingers on the windowpane, tapping out a rhythm that felt almost human — impatient, lonely, alive. Inside the apartment, the light was dim, fractured by the smoke of half-burnt incense and the dull glow of a streetlamp leaking through the blinds.

A single table stood in the center — cluttered with empty cans, vinyl records, and two untouched plates of food. The green beans on Jack’s plate glistened under the flicker of the light like small, unwelcome truths.

Jeeny sat across from him, cross-legged on the chair, a soft smile hovering on her lips, her eyes full of quiet mischief.

Jack: “Kurt Cobain once said, ‘I won’t eat anything green.’ I think he was joking — but maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he meant he refused to swallow what the world keeps forcing down our throats.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe he just didn’t like vegetables, Jack.”

Jack: “You really think Cobain ever meant just what he said?”

Host: A low laugh escaped her, light and sincere, but behind it was something deeper — the kind of laugh that hides a bruise. The room felt heavy with unspoken meaning, the air still carrying the ghost of Cobain’s voice through the old speaker in the corner.

Jeeny: “He lived on contradictions. He hated fame, yet needed it. He hated expectations, yet became their symbol. Maybe ‘I won’t eat anything green’ was his way of saying he wouldn’t digest the artificial — the things that looked fresh but tasted false.”

Jack: “So, rebellion disguised as appetite.”

Jeeny: “Or honesty disguised as humor.”

Host: The rain pressed harder now, streaking the glass with a kind of nervous beauty. Jack leaned back, his grey eyes scanning the ceiling, his tone dark but thoughtful.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? People loved him because he hated the same things they did — the phoniness, the fame, the expectations. But then they turned him into everything he despised. They made him an icon of anti-iconism.”

Jeeny: “Because people don’t know how to love without turning it into ownership. They couldn’t just let him be. They had to define him, label him, sell him.”

Jack: “Like turning pain into merchandise.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And maybe the ‘green’ he refused to eat wasn’t food — it was envy, hypocrisy, conformity. Everything that grows pretty but chokes the roots beneath.”

Host: The sound of the rain shifted — softer now, more like confession than noise. The lamp flickered once, twice, before steadying again.

Jack: “You really think he meant all that from one sentence?”

Jeeny: “Kurt never said things plainly. He said them like riddles. Because he was one. That’s the curse of the sensitive — they feel everything, but can only speak in metaphors.”

Jack: “You admire him, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “I understand him. That’s different.”

Host: Jack’s hand drifted toward his cigarette pack, fingers tracing the edge like it was a rosary of modern faith.

Jack: “You ever wonder what he’d say if he saw the world now? TikToks, influencers, rebellion sold as fashion?”

Jeeny: “He’d laugh. Then he’d write a song about it. Then he’d cry.”

Jack: “Yeah. Probably in that order.”

Host: A faint hum came from the old speaker. “Come as You Are” spilled quietly into the room — the lyrics slow, raw, unmistakable. Jeeny’s eyes glimmered with nostalgia.

Jeeny: “You know, there’s something almost tragic about how people misunderstood him. He wasn’t trying to be a rebel — he was trying to be real. But the world doesn’t reward real. It commodifies it.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s why he stopped eating anything green — because it all looked alive but wasn’t.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because sometimes beauty is camouflage. Sometimes what grows brightest hides the rot underneath.”

Host: Jack chuckled — low, rough, the kind of laugh that feels more like remembering than amusement.

Jack: “So, you’re saying we’re all force-fed a diet of appearances — fake success, fake happiness — and we just keep eating it because we’re hungry for meaning.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And maybe refusing to eat it — even if it makes you seem strange — is the most honest act left.”

Jack: “So Kurt’s pickiness was protest.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The simplest protest of all — the refusal to consume what poisons you.”

Host: The wind outside howled, rattling the old window frame. The candle on the table flickered, throwing light across Jeeny’s face, highlighting the quiet defiance in her features.

Jack: “You ever think people like him — the ones who feel too much — are destined to break?”

Jeeny: “Not destined. Cornered. The world doesn’t make space for fragility. It punishes sensitivity and worships numbness.”

Jack: “So the real rebellion is staying tender.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The silence that followed was heavy — not awkward, but sacred. The song ended, the static filled the air again, and for a brief moment, the world felt hollow yet strangely pure.

Jack: “You know,” he said softly, “I get it now. He wasn’t talking about food at all. He was talking about purity — about refusing to digest what society shoves down our throats. About hunger with integrity.”

Jeeny: “And you?”

Jack: “What about me?”

Jeeny: “What do you refuse to eat?”

Host: Jack’s eyes met hers — the grey against the brown — and he smiled faintly, almost sadly.

Jack: “Lies. I’ve swallowed enough of them to know they never fill you.”

Jeeny: “Good. Then you’ve already started the same protest.”

Host: The rain quieted into a whisper. The city outside breathed in and exhaled, lights dimming against the weight of night.

Jack looked down at his plate again — the untouched green beans, the small token of rebellion. Then he lifted his fork, pushed them aside, and spoke almost to himself.

Jack: “Maybe it’s not about eating what’s right. Maybe it’s about refusing what’s wrong.”

Jeeny: “That’s the beginning of truth, Jack.”

Host: Her words hung there — soft, resolute, like a string of notes fading into silence.

The candle flame swayed once more, then steadied, casting their shadows onto the wall — two figures caught between rebellion and reverence, between the hunger of the world and the appetite of the soul.

And as the last echo of Cobain’s voice dissolved into static, the world outside went quiet — as if it, too, understood the strange sanctity of refusal.

Because sometimes, the bravest thing a soul can do
is simply to whisper,
“I won’t eat anything green.”