I'm just here for good times, man. I want people to have the best

Host: The night was young, but the city already burned with neon — pink, blue, and gold lights bleeding into the humid air like melted dreams. Music pulsed from every bar and club, vibrating through the sidewalks and the restless souls who walked them. Somewhere in the maze of sound and shadow sat a rooftop bar called “Eclipse,” its name flickering in half-dead letters.

Jack leaned against the railing, a cigarette glowing between his fingers, the smoke curling like a lazy ghost into the dark. Jeeny sat across from him, nursing a glass of something amber, her eyes reflecting the city’s endless motion — the crowds below, the laughter, the chaos.

Jack: “You know what I like about Travis Scott?”

Jeeny: “That he makes people jump off balconies?”

Host: Her tone was teasing, but her smile was soft — the kind of smile that hides curiosity. The wind brushed her hair against her cheek, and the bass from the club below trembled through the floor.

Jack: “No. It’s what he said once. ‘I’m just here for good times, man. I want people to have the best time ever. Especially if they’re around me.’”

Jeeny: “Sounds simple enough.”

Jack: “Yeah. That’s what makes it brilliant. No philosophy, no performance — just joy. Pure, reckless joy. You know how rare that is now?”

Jeeny: “Rare? Or shallow?”

Host: The question floated like smoke between them. The city below roared with laughter — but here, above it all, the air felt suspended, heavy with meaning that most of the world never paused to taste.

Jack: “You think it’s shallow to want people to have a good time?”

Jeeny: “No. I think it’s easy to hide behind it. Joy can be a mask as much as a gift.”

Jack: “You’re overthinking it again, Jeeny. Sometimes people just want to feel alive. To escape. To laugh so hard they forget their names. That’s not a mask — that’s survival.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But what happens when the laughter stops? When the music fades, and the lights go out? Who’s left — the person who danced, or the one who was running from something?”

Jack: “Does it matter? The point is that for a moment, they felt something real. You can’t dismiss that.”

Host: He flicked the ash from his cigarette, watching it scatter into the wind like a small burst of dying stars. Jeeny leaned forward, elbows on the table, her eyes steady, her voice low but certain.

Jeeny: “It matters if joy is the only thing you live for. Travis Scott — his whole world is built on giving people a high. But you can’t live in the high. Even he knows that. Remember Astroworld? The tragedy wasn’t just about chaos — it was about what happens when ‘good times’ lose their balance.”

Jack: “You think he wanted that? Come on. He wanted people to feel what he felt when he made the music — wild, unchained, free.”

Jeeny: “I know. But that’s the danger of freedom without awareness. You can’t give everyone the best time ever — not when the crowd forgets that other people exist.”

Host: A faint siren wailed somewhere in the distance, fading in and out between beats of the club’s music. Jack’s jaw tightened, but his eyes softened.

Jack: “You always find the tragedy in joy.”

Jeeny: “Because joy is fragile. It breaks too easily when we forget to care for it.”

Jack: “You sound like a sermon.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like someone who’s afraid to feel.”

Host: That hit him. He looked away, exhaling hard, the smoke drifting into the hot air. The music below shifted — a heavier beat, more desperate, like the city’s pulse had found its heart again.

Jack: “I used to think like you. That happiness had to mean something, that there had to be depth behind it. But I’ve seen people go through hell — debt, heartbreak, war, loss — and when they finally smile, even for five seconds, it’s sacred. You don’t analyze that. You protect it.”

Jeeny: “And what about you, Jack? Do you ever let yourself have those five seconds?”

Host: The question hung in the humid night, a knife made of kindness. Jack’s eyes flickered — not with anger, but with something quieter, something almost human.

Jack: “Not really. I make sure others do.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s your tragedy.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s my purpose.”

Host: The wind picked up, scattering napkins and cigarette butts across the roof, as if the world was trying to clean up after itself. Below, the crowd roared as another track dropped — a collective heartbeat of strangers pretending they were infinite.

Jeeny: “You think joy can be your purpose?”

Jack: “Why not? Look at the world. Everyone’s angry, tired, broke, addicted to doom. Someone has to make the night worth living.”

Jeeny: “But don’t you see the danger in that? When everything becomes about pleasure, we forget to ask whether we’re actually happy — or just entertained.”

Jack: “Happiness is overrated. People don’t want meaning, Jeeny. They want release.”

Jeeny: “Release without reflection becomes addiction.”

Jack: “And reflection without release becomes paralysis.”

Host: Silence again. This time, a heavy one. Their words hung in the hot air, each truth cutting into the other, like two edges of the same blade. The moonlight trembled on the glass of Jeeny’s drink.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’re defending escapism.”

Jack: “Maybe I am. But isn’t that what art is? What music is? Escape. That’s what Travis does — he gives people an exit from the noise in their heads. For one night, one concert, one song — he makes them forget that life’s breaking them.”

Jeeny: “But maybe real art should remind us who we are — not make us forget.”

Jack: “Reminders are for the morning. Nights are for forgetting.”

Host: His voice was low, almost a whisper, but it carried something ancient — the ache of someone who had lived too many nights like this. Jeeny watched him closely, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass.

Jeeny: “So you think the best thing you can do for people is give them a good time?”

Jack: “Yeah. Even if it’s temporary. Especially because it’s temporary.”

Jeeny: “Then who gives you yours?”

Jack: “No one. I’m not here for that. I’m here for everyone else.”

Host: The city below erupted again — laughter, music, the sound of a bottle breaking against concrete. The wind brushed against their faces, carrying the faint scent of rain and cigarettes.

Jeeny: “Jack, you can’t pour joy into others forever without drowning a little yourself.”

Jack: “Maybe drowning’s part of the job.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe you just forgot how to swim.”

Host: He looked at her then, really looked. Her eyes were dark, but not unkind — like a window lit from within. The club below faded into background noise. For a moment, there was only the sound of two hearts beating out of sync.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. But still… isn’t it something, Jeeny? To make a crowd of strangers forget the world for a moment? To watch them lift their hands like they believe in something again?”

Jeeny: “It’s beautiful. But it’s not enough. The best time ever isn’t just about escape — it’s about connection. You can’t build that on noise alone.”

Host: The music rose again — a slow remix, dreamy and soft, as if the night itself wanted to eavesdrop. Jeeny’s words melted into it, gentle but firm.

Jeeny: “Joy that doesn’t heal is just noise. But joy that heals — that’s love.”

Jack: “You really think joy can heal?”

Jeeny: “Yes. If it’s shared honestly. If it doesn’t come from fear or loneliness. If it’s real.”

Host: He stared out at the skyline, the glow of the city reflecting in his tired eyes. Somewhere far below, someone laughed — wild and unashamed. It made him smile, faintly, the kind of smile that breaks something open.

Jack: “Then maybe Travis was right, and so are you. Maybe the good times aren’t about escape. Maybe they’re about remembering what being alive feels like — before the world reminds you to forget.”

Jeeny: “Now you’re starting to sound like hope.”

Jack: “Don’t tell anyone.”

Host: The night softened. The wind carried away the smoke, the noise, the heaviness. For a moment, everything — the city, the lights, the laughter — felt suspended in quiet understanding.

And under that trembling canopy of neon and stars, two souls sat together, watching the city breathe — realizing that sometimes, the best time ever isn’t about the party at all.

It’s about the peace that comes when the music fades… and you’re still there, alive, together, and real.