I'm definitely doing better. I never realized that I would get

Host: The studio was almost empty now — the kind of emptiness that only exists after music dies. The lights hung low, flickering faintly over a tangle of cables, microphones, and half-finished coffee cups. Through the large window, the city glimmered in the dark, its heartbeat pulsing in distant horns and headlights.

Jeeny sat at the piano, her fingers brushing absently across the keys, letting out fragments of soft, uncertain sound. Jack stood behind the soundboard, his grey eyes fixed on her reflection in the glass.

There was a fragile peace between them — not silence, but something gentler, like an old song reaching its final chord.

Jeeny: “I was watching an interview with Pia Toscano earlier. She said something beautiful: ‘I’m definitely doing better. I never realized that I would get the support that I’ve gotten from everybody — from my fans, to people that I’ve idolized my whole life. So it’s overwhelming, it’s amazing and I believe that everything happens for a reason, so I’m in a really good place right now.’”

Host: Her voice carried warmth, the kind that rises only after long years of fighting to believe again. Jack’s jaw tightened — not from cynicism this time, but from something more complicated, something like envy disguised as logic.

Jack: “Yeah, well, it’s easy to talk about reasons once things start working out. No one says ‘everything happens for a reason’ when they’re still bleeding.”

Jeeny: (turning slowly toward him) “Maybe that’s the point, Jack. You don’t see the reason until you’ve made it through.”

Jack: “Or maybe we invent the reason afterward so we can live with what happened.”

Host: The rain began to fall against the glass, each drop catching the soft reflection of the studio lights — like memories returning for one last encore.

Jeeny: “You don’t believe in purpose?”

Jack: “I believe in consequences. Purpose is just a story people tell themselves to stop falling apart.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that story saves them.”

Host: Jack’s hand reached for the fader, adjusting a level that didn’t need adjusting. It was his way of avoiding her eyes, which always saw too much.

Jack: “So what? You think everything — every failure, every heartbreak, every missed chance — is part of some grand design?”

Jeeny: “Not a design. A journey. There’s a difference.”

Host: Her voice was calm, but her fingers trembled slightly against the keys. The soft note she played lingered in the air, fragile but true.

Jeeny: “You remember when Pia Toscano was eliminated from American Idol early? Everyone said she was robbed. She could’ve disappeared, Jack. But she didn’t. She kept singing — at weddings, in small clubs, on backup gigs — until someone finally saw her again. That’s not luck. That’s faith dressed as endurance.”

Jack: “Faith doesn’t pay rent, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “No, but it keeps you breathing until rent day.”

Host: He couldn’t help but laugh — a low, reluctant sound. The kind of laugh that slips out when cynicism loses its footing.

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It isn’t. But that’s the point. Growth never feels like growth when it’s happening. It feels like collapse. Then one day, you look around and realize the ground beneath you has become something steady.”

Host: Her words filled the room, gentle yet undeniable. Outside, a train rumbled past, its distant sound blending with the rain like a reminder that time never stops, even when hearts do.

Jack: “You talk like pain’s a teacher. I just think it’s a cost.”

Jeeny: “Then at least make sure it buys you something worth keeping.”

Host: The air between them thickened — not with anger, but memory. Jack stared at the floor, his reflection rippling faintly on the glossy tiles.

Jack: “You really think things happen for a reason?”

Jeeny: “I think they happen for a lesson. Whether we learn it or not is up to us.”

Jack: “And what’s your lesson?”

Jeeny: (pausing) “That we don’t always get what we want, but we usually get what we need.”

Host: The light above them flickered, a soft pulse that seemed to echo her words. For a moment, the studio felt almost sacred — a small temple of truth built out of echoes and dust.

Jack: “You sound like someone who’s made peace with the past.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe I just learned how to listen to it without letting it hurt me.”

Host: She pressed a few more keys — a faint melody, unfinished but full of promise. Jack watched her hands move with quiet reverence, the same way one watches someone pray.

Jack: “You ever think about the people who didn’t get the support Pia did? The ones who never get discovered, who keep fighting and never get their ‘reason’?”

Jeeny: “All the time. But maybe their reason isn’t fame or validation. Maybe it’s the small, invisible ways they change the world — a song sung to one person that saves a life they’ll never know about.”

Jack: “That sounds too good to be true.”

Jeeny: “Maybe truth isn’t always measured in proof.”

Host: A faint thunder rolled in the distance. The windowpane vibrated slightly as the wind pressed against it. The city beyond blurred, its colors bleeding together — a living watercolor of imperfection.

Jack: “You always see light in everything. I don’t get it.”

Jeeny: “Because I’ve seen what darkness does when you let it win. And I’d rather believe in light, even if I’m wrong.”

Host: Jack’s shoulders relaxed. The line between skepticism and surrender softened.

Jack: “You know, I used to think optimism was just another drug — a way to numb yourself to reality. But maybe… maybe it’s a way of building it instead.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Faith isn’t blindness, Jack. It’s construction.”

Host: She smiled at him, a small, luminous smile that felt earned — the kind that doesn’t belong to innocence but to survival.

Jeeny: “Pia said she never realized she’d get that much support. Isn’t that how life works? You fall apart expecting no one to catch you… and then someone does. And you realize you were never as alone as you thought.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s the best kind of miracle — the unexpected kind.”

Jeeny: “The ordinary kind.”

Host: The rain eased into a soft drizzle, the city lights shimmering like wet gold. Jeeny began to play again, softly this time — not a song, but a feeling. Jack walked closer, his reflection merging with hers in the studio glass.

Jack: “You ever think that maybe… everything really does happen for a reason?”

Jeeny: (smiling, still playing) “I think everything happens for a chance.”

Jack: “A chance for what?”

Jeeny: “For us to become who we were meant to be — even if we didn’t plan it that way.”

Host: The final note lingered in the air like breath before silence. Outside, the city shimmered — alive, uncertain, and forgiving.

Jack closed his eyes, letting the music wash through him. The weight in his voice softened when he finally spoke again.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what ‘a good place’ really means. Not perfect. Just present.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The peace after the storm — not because everything’s fixed, but because we finally stopped fighting what is.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then, revealing the two of them framed by the soft light of the studio — survivors of their own storms, architects of quiet resilience.

The music faded, but the feeling didn’t.

And in that still moment, between the echoes of struggle and song, they both understood — that faith isn’t waiting for the reason to appear.

It’s trusting that it’s already there,
waiting for us to see it.