I'd never been to a prom, I had never had the whole high school

Host: The auditorium was deserted now — rows of folding chairs still scattered across the floor, the faint scent of perfume, punch, and balloons lingering in the stale air. A few streamers clung to the ceiling like the last stubborn memories of a night that was supposed to mean everything. The faint echo of music still seemed to hum from the walls, though the band was long gone, leaving only silence and the soft hum of the air conditioner.

At the edge of the stage sat Jack, his tie loosened, jacket slung across the back of a chair. He looked out over the empty room like a man studying a crime scene — not of violence, but of nostalgia. His eyes were thoughtful, distant, carrying the quiet ache of someone revisiting a place he never belonged to.

From the side door, Jeeny entered — still in her heels, her hair slightly messy from the night’s festivities. She carried two paper cups of soda, the carbonation whispering faintly as she walked.

Host: The lights above were dim now, glowing with the soft amber of an ending — the kind of light that exposes rather than flatters.

Jeeny: (gently) “Alicia Witt once said, ‘I'd never been to a prom, I had never had the whole high school experience. I think I was kind of an anomaly. I don't think they knew where to put me.’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Ah. The old story of the misplaced soul.”

Jeeny: “Or the misfiled one.”

Jack: “Maybe both. High school’s funny that way. It pretends to be a map, but really it’s just a maze with bad lighting.”

Jeeny: (laughs softly) “And everyone trying to act like they know the way out.”

Jack: “Exactly. You spend four years pretending you’re part of something, just so you can graduate into the next illusion.”

Host: The balloons swayed faintly in the air conditioning, their strings curling like forgotten questions. The whole room smelled faintly of sugar, sweat, and innocence left out overnight.

Jeeny: “But for people like her — the ones who never fit the script — I think it’s worse. The prom, the friends, the labels... they’re all written for a kind of person who plays well with others.”

Jack: “Yeah. And if you’re not one of them, they don’t know what to do with you. You become a curiosity. Or worse — invisible.”

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve been there.”

Jack: “I think everyone has, at least once. That moment when the music plays and everyone’s dancing, and you realize no one’s looking for you.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “That’s not loneliness. That’s awareness.”

Jack: (pauses) “Beautifully said.”

Host: A strand of tinsel floated down from the ceiling, twisting lazily before landing on the floor — a small glittering reminder of all the effort poured into pretending nights like these meant something permanent.

Jack: “You know what I like about that quote? It’s honest. She’s not bitter. She’s just... stating it. Like a fact. ‘I didn’t fit. They didn’t know where to put me.’ There’s no resentment, just recognition.”

Jeeny: “Because when you’re young, you think not fitting in means something’s wrong with you. When you’re older, you realize it’s your proof of individuality.”

Jack: “The mark of authenticity. The cost of originality.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. But high school doesn’t teach that. It’s not built for anomalies — it’s built for averages.”

Jack: “Yeah. It rewards conformity and calls it community.”

Jeeny: (softly) “And it punishes difference but calls it discipline.”

Host: The silence stretched between them, not awkward, but full — like two people sitting in the echo of an old truth.

Jack: “You ever go to your prom, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “I went. I wore the dress, the heels, even smiled for pictures. But I felt like an actress trapped in the wrong script. Everyone else seemed to know their lines, and I just… improvised.”

Jack: “So you didn’t belong either.”

Jeeny: “Not really. I learned later that belonging doesn’t mean fitting in. It means being found — by people who see you.”

Jack: “That’s the kind of wisdom you earn the hard way.”

Jeeny: “Every misfit does.”

Host: The janitor appeared briefly in the back, sweeping quietly, his broom’s rhythm steady and indifferent. The two of them didn’t move. They just watched the empty dance floor, where earlier, joy had briefly imitated permanence.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what Alicia Witt was really saying. That being an anomaly isn’t the tragedy — it’s the truth of the artist.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Artists are born from exclusion. The ones who never had a table learn to build their own.”

Jack: “And they spend the rest of their lives inviting other outsiders to sit with them.”

Jeeny: “That’s what art is — a refuge for the displaced.”

Host: A faint hum rose from the old speakers as if the ghosts of a pop song still lingered in their wires.

Jack: (quietly) “You know what’s strange? Sometimes I think not having that ‘normal’ experience — the prom, the locker gossip, the hierarchy — saves you. You get to see life without the illusion of belonging.”

Jeeny: “And you start building your own language instead of learning theirs.”

Jack: “Exactly. You become fluent in solitude. In observation.”

Jeeny: “Which is the first dialect of creation.”

Jack: “And the hardest one to unlearn.”

Host: The janitor’s broom paused for a moment, and for a second, the whole building seemed to breathe — the walls remembering laughter, the floors remembering footsteps.

Jeeny: “It’s funny. People chase those ‘moments’ — the dances, the cliques, the normal milestones — but they fade so quickly. The outsiders, though... they carry the ache forever. It becomes fuel.”

Jack: “Pain is the only souvenir that doesn’t fade.”

Jeeny: “And the only one worth keeping.”

Host: Jeeny stood then, her reflection catching in the darkened window — soft, real, imperfect. She looked out into the rainy night beyond, where the glow of streetlights bent against the glass like blurred memories.

Jack: “You know what I think, Jeeny? Maybe not fitting in isn’t a flaw — it’s a rehearsal for a wider life. The kind where you build meaning instead of waiting to be assigned it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what she meant. They didn’t know where to put her because she wasn’t supposed to be put anywhere. She was supposed to create her own space.”

Jack: “Yeah. Some people are born into the world. Others have to carve their way in.”

Host: The camera pulled back slowly — the two of them small in the vast empty room, surrounded by the remnants of other people’s memories. The faint shimmer of balloons. The quiet resilience of misfits who never needed a dance floor to define them.

And over that tender stillness, Alicia Witt’s words drifted like a confession turned into philosophy:

“I'd never been to a prom, I had never had the whole high school experience. I think I was kind of an anomaly. I don't think they knew where to put me.”

Host: Because the world will always struggle to label what it doesn’t understand —
and the rare souls who never fit the mold
are the ones who end up shaping it.

For belonging isn’t about placement —
it’s about purpose.

And sometimes,
the ones left out of the dance
become the ones
who write the music.