Ice cream is my comfort food.

Host: The night was heavy with summer heat — the kind that makes even the air feel lazy, thick with the scent of jasmine, asphalt, and regret. The city buzzed faintly outside, but in the small kitchen of a second-floor apartment, the world had slowed to a single hum: the whirr of the freezer door, the clink of spoons, and the low murmur of a half-lit conversation.

Jack sat barefoot on the counter, a tub of vanilla ice cream in one hand and a tired smile on his face. Jeeny leaned against the opposite counter, hair tied up, a faint sheen of sweat on her collarbone, holding her own spoon like it was an instrument of therapy. Between them — the shared comfort of melted sweetness and unspoken sorrow.

Outside, a distant radio played a soul song, Jessie Ware’s voice drifting like silk through the humid air.

Jeeny: (softly) “Jessie Ware once said, ‘Ice cream is my comfort food.’”

Jack: (grinning faintly) “She’s not wrong. The world could end, and as long as there’s ice cream left in the freezer, I think I’d die happy.”

Host: The light from the fridge illuminated their faces — tired, warm, half-laughing. The melting ice cream gleamed like a fragile truce between two people who’d been running too long from the heaviness of their own hearts.

Jeeny: “It’s funny, isn’t it? How something so small, so simple, can save you from yourself for a moment.”

Jack: “Yeah. Cold sweetness against all the bitterness you can’t explain.”

Jeeny: “That’s the point. Ice cream doesn’t ask questions. It doesn’t lecture or analyze. It just… melts. And lets you melt with it.”

Jack: “And you end up sticky and guilty afterward.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Guilt is the tax on comfort.”

Host: The ceiling fan turned slowly, pushing the warm air around like a lazy thought. The sound of their spoons against the carton became its own rhythm — unspoken understanding in the quiet clink of shared escape.

Jack: “You know, it’s strange. The world makes comfort sound like weakness. As if wanting to feel better is some kind of flaw.”

Jeeny: “Because comfort doesn’t look heroic. It’s soft. It’s ordinary. But that’s what makes it real.”

Jack: “Maybe it’s the closest thing we get to forgiveness.”

Jeeny: “Forgiveness in dairy form.”

Jack: (laughing) “The holy trinity: sugar, cream, and not giving a damn.”

Host: The laugh faded into silence — the kind of silence that doesn’t sting, but settles. The kind that says, We’re safe here, for now.

Jeeny: (after a pause) “You ever notice how comfort food tastes better when you’re not trying to impress anyone?”

Jack: “That’s the only time it’s real. You don’t eat ice cream for Instagram.”

Jeeny: “No filters, no rules — just the pure rebellion of saying, I deserve sweetness, even now.”

Jack: “Especially now.”

Host: The rain began, light and steady, pattering softly against the kitchen window. The sound filled the room like a gentle reminder that the world outside was still aching too — and finding its own way to cool down.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, ice cream was the cure for everything. Skinned knees, bad grades, heartbreak.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now it’s nostalgia with calories.”

Jeeny: “Still works though, doesn’t it?”

Jack: (grinning) “Every damn time.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked quietly, marking the slow surrender of the evening. Jeeny sat down across from him on the counter, swinging her legs idly, spooning a bit of chocolate from the carton’s edge.

Jeeny: “You ever think comfort food is just memory disguised as flavor?”

Jack: “Go on.”

Jeeny: “It’s not the ice cream that fixes you — it’s the kid you used to be, eating it without shame, believing sweetness was enough to cure sadness.”

Jack: “And now we eat it to remember the cure, not to feel it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Jack: “So this isn’t dessert — it’s therapy.”

Jeeny: “The cheapest kind.”

Host: Their laughter softened, blending with the rhythm of rain and the hum of the fridge. For a moment, they weren’t two tired adults with unfinished lives — they were children again, stealing time and sugar from a world too complicated to understand.

Jack: “You ever notice how when life breaks you, you crave the simplest things? Ice cream, music, sleep.”

Jeeny: “Because simplicity heals what complexity ruins.”

Jack: “And sugar fills the cracks where words can’t.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Jessie Ware knew that. You don’t fight sadness — you soothe it.”

Jack: “You make peace with it.”

Jeeny: “And if peace comes in a pint, you take it.”

Host: The light outside flickered, reflecting on the window like melted gold. The air had cooled; even the rain seemed to relax. Jack dipped his spoon again, slower now, savoring each bite as if memorizing its comfort.

Jack: “You know, I’ve spent years chasing big things — success, meaning, redemption. But this?” (he gestures toward the melting carton) “This feels truer than all of it.”

Jeeny: “Because big things collapse without small joys to hold them up.”

Jack: “You think small joys are what keep us sane?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. They’re what keep us human.”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly, not from sadness, but from recognition — the kind of truth that lands softly but settles deep. The rain eased to a drizzle. The city lights blinked like sleepy eyes.

Jeeny: “You know what comfort food really is?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “Permission. To stop being strong. To just… exist. To say, ‘Today was hard, and I earned this sweetness.’”

Jack: (smiling) “Then maybe ice cream’s the bravest meal there is.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because it says: I’m still here. And I still believe in something that tastes good.”

Host: The last spoonfuls disappeared, but neither moved to clean up. The moment itself was nourishment enough — two people who’d found refuge not in answers, but in acceptance.

The rain stopped, leaving the window streaked with silver trails.

Jack: (quietly) “You know, maybe that’s why comfort food matters. Because it’s honest. It doesn’t fix you — it just reminds you that you’re still worth fixing.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “And that you don’t have to do it hungry.”

Host: The lights dimmed as the fridge door finally closed. The air hummed softly, the world reduced to warmth, sugar, and shared stillness.

Outside, the clouds parted, and the moon slipped through — pale, forgiving, familiar.

And in that quiet, fleeting glow,
Jack and Jeeny sat surrounded by nothing grand,
nothing miraculous — just sweetness,
and the slow realization that sometimes,
healing doesn’t roar.

Sometimes,
it tastes like ice cream on a summer night.