I'm free from holding personal anger because I can express what I

Host: The recording studio was bathed in dim blue light, the kind that blurs time and thought. The walls were lined with soundproof foam, the air heavy with the scent of coffee, dust, and the faint metallic tang of electricity. Outside, the city pulsed like a heartbeat — neon veins and restless streets — but inside, there was only the quiet hum of a piano waiting to be played.

Jack sat on a worn stool, a pair of headphones hanging loosely around his neck. His fingers hovered above the keys, not yet touching, not yet daring. Across the room, Jeeny adjusted a microphone stand, her movements careful, deliberate, like she was handling something sacred.

The clock on the wall ticked quietly — the only rhythm in the silence.

Jeeny: “You’ve been sitting there for twenty minutes. You’re not even playing.”

Jack: “I’m not ready.”

Jeeny: “You’ve been saying that for three days.”

Jack: (shrugs) “Maybe I’m waiting for the right emotion.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe you’re afraid of what happens when you finally let it out.”

Host: Her voice carried softly, like a note that lingered just above silence. Jack sighed, rubbing his temples. His eyes were tired, but not from lack of sleep — from the weight of everything unsaid.

He turned toward her, his voice low, roughened with honesty.

Jack: “You ever hold something inside for so long, you forget what it would sound like if you said it out loud?”

Jeeny: “All the time. That’s why I write.”

Jack: “I don’t write. I play. But lately… even that feels heavy.”

Host: Jeeny leaned against the wall, arms folded, her gaze soft but steady. The studio light caught the side of her face — half shadow, half glow.

Jeeny: “Yoko Ono once said, ‘I’m free from holding personal anger because I can express what I want through my music.’ Maybe that’s what you need — not to fix the anger, but to release it.”

Jack: (smirking faintly) “So you’re comparing me to Yoko Ono now?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m reminding you that art’s supposed to save you, not suffocate you.”

Host: The piano waited, silent, like a listener holding its breath. The air was thick with unsung chords, unspoken confessions.

Jack ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly.

Jack: “You really think she was free? After Lennon, after the hate, after everything?”

Jeeny: “Freedom isn’t peace, Jack. It’s honesty. And she found a way to tell her truth — even when the world mocked her for it.”

Jack: “Yeah, well, I’m not exactly Yoko. The world doesn’t care about my truth.”

Jeeny: “It doesn’t have to. You do.”

Host: Her words landed like a key turning in a locked door. Jack’s hand trembled as he finally touched the keys — one note, soft and uncertain. Then another. The sound was raw, uneven, like a memory waking up.

He stopped, shaking his head.

Jack: “It doesn’t sound right.”

Jeeny: “Because you’re still trying to control it. Stop thinking. Just feel.”

Host: The light flickered, a small pulse matching the rhythm of his breath. Jeeny moved closer, her shadow falling across the keys.

Jack: “You don’t understand. Anger’s not just an emotion for me. It’s fuel. If I let it go, what’s left?”

Jeeny: “Maybe peace. Maybe truth. Maybe something you’ve been too afraid to hear.”

Jack: “Or maybe nothing.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Then nothing’s the sound you need to play.”

Host: The rain began outside, tapping against the studio window — slow, consistent, like a metronome set by the universe. Jack pressed his fingers down again, this time harder, letting the chords crash out, messy and human. The sound filled the room, thick and trembling, spilling everything he couldn’t say.

It wasn’t pretty. But it was alive.

Jeeny closed her eyes, listening.

Jeeny: “There it is.”

Jack: (breathing heavily) “What?”

Jeeny: “The part you’ve been hiding.”

Host: The music slowed, turned tender, fragile — as if anger had dissolved into something else: grief, maybe; or grace. Jack’s head hung low over the piano, his shoulders shaking.

Jeeny moved closer, standing beside him, her hand resting lightly on the wooden frame.

Jeeny: “That’s what Yoko meant. Music isn’t decoration. It’s confession.”

Jack: “And what if confession doesn’t fix anything?”

Jeeny: “It doesn’t have to fix it. It just has to release it. You can’t heal what you won’t reveal.”

Host: He looked up at her, eyes shining with something raw — pain, yes, but also relief. The room felt different now. Lighter. The storm outside no longer felt like a mirror; it felt like applause.

Jack: (softly) “You think that’s enough? Just… letting it out?”

Jeeny: “It’s a start. Anger’s just energy that’s lost its way. Music gives it direction.”

Jack: “And what if I don’t have music someday?”

Jeeny: “Then find something else. Paint. Walk. Talk. Break things if you have to. Just don’t let it rot inside you.”

Host: The piano strings vibrated softly from the last note, humming in sympathy. Jack sat back, his hands still hovering in the air, as if reluctant to break the connection.

He looked at Jeeny — really looked — and his voice dropped to a whisper.

Jack: “You ever think music’s the only honest language we’ve got left?”

Jeeny: “It’s the only one that doesn’t lie when we do.”

Host: Silence followed. A beautiful, aching silence. Then Jeeny reached over and pressed a single note — a high, fragile tone that lingered in the air between them.

Jeeny: “See? Even one sound can hold a lifetime.”

Jack: “Or let go of one.”

Host: He smiled faintly, the tension in his jaw softening. The storm outside had thinned to a drizzle. Inside, the air was lighter, alive again with the quiet hum of creation.

Jeeny: “Feel better?”

Jack: “Not better. Just… freer.”

Jeeny: “Good. That’s what she meant. Freedom isn’t happiness. It’s release.”

Host: She stepped away, leaving him alone with the piano. Jack stared at the keys for a long moment before pressing one final chord — gentle, complete, like an exhale after years of holding his breath.

The sound lingered, floated, disappeared.

Outside, the clouds began to break, and the city light poured through the window, soft and forgiving.

Host: In that moment, Jack understood what Yoko Ono had known all along — that art doesn’t cure the wound; it teaches you how to bleed beautifully, without dying from it.

And as the last note faded, silence finally became music — and music, freedom.