I'm not going to change the way I look or the way I feel to

Host: The city was wrapped in neon mist, rain drizzling down like silver threads against the glass of a half-forgotten bar on the corner of Seventh Street. The sign above it flickered — “Electric Blue” — the E already burned out, leaving it to glow faintly as “L ctric Blu”. Inside, the air was thick with smoke, music, and the faint hum of lonely laughter.

Jack sat at the end of the counter, a beer bottle sweating under the dim yellow light. His grey eyes stared into nothing, his jawline set, his sleeves rolled up. Across from him, Jeeny leaned on her stool, tracing the rim of her glass with one finger, her dark eyes alive with that soft, defiant fire she carried like armor.

The jukebox crackled, then shifted to an old John Lennon song — “Working Class Hero.”

Jack: half-smiling, half-bitter “Fitting, huh? Lennon said it best — ‘I’ve always been a freak. So I’ve been a freak all my life and I have to live with that.’ Maybe the only honest thing any celebrity ever said.”

Jeeny: “You love that word — freak.”

Jack: “Because it’s real. I spent half my life pretending to fit in, Jeeny. The rest trying to figure out why I couldn’t. Lennon didn’t apologize for it. He wore it like a badge.”

Jeeny: “You sound like someone proud of his scars.”

Jack: “Maybe I am. They’re the only proof I ever fought back.”

Host: The bartender wiped down the counter, pretending not to listen, while the rain tapped against the window in uneven rhythm, like a drummer losing his beat. The light caught the smoke in the air, turning it to amber fog.

Jeeny: “Lennon was a rebel, sure. But even he wanted to belong — to something, to someone. You think being a freak means being alone, but that’s not what he meant.”

Jack: “Then what did he mean?”

Jeeny: “He meant he refused to shrink. To bend himself just to make other people comfortable. He knew he’d never fit into anyone’s mold, and he made peace with that.”

Jack: “Peace. That’s one word I’ve never managed to get along with.”

Jeeny: “That’s because you confuse peace with surrender.”

Host: Her voice was calm, but it hit him like a strike. Jack looked up, his eyes sharp, challenging, like a man who’d been called out in the middle of his own story.

Jack: “I don’t surrender, Jeeny. I survive. There’s a difference.”

Jeeny: “Is there? You talk about survival like it’s victory. But all survival means is you’re still breathing. It doesn’t mean you’re living.”

Jack: “Living’s for people who have something left to lose.”

Jeeny: softly “And freaks like you? What do they have?”

Jack: “Freedom.”

Host: A pause. A smile — thin, dangerous. The kind that flirts with both truth and pain. The lights from passing cars slid across his face, cutting through the smoke like blades.

Jeeny: “Freedom without belonging isn’t freedom, Jack. It’s exile.”

Jack: “Maybe exile’s the price you pay for being real.”

Jeeny: “No. Exile’s what happens when you mistake your wounds for your identity.”

Host: The words hung between them, slow, heavy, and true. Jack looked away, his hand tightening around the bottle until the label wrinkled beneath his fingers.

Jack: “You think I like being this way? You think I chose to be the guy who never fits? I didn’t. It just happened. Somewhere between trying to be who I was supposed to be and who I actually am — I lost the map.”

Jeeny: “And now you pretend the map never existed.”

Jack: “Because it didn’t help me anyway. Every time I tried to follow it — I ended up someone else’s version of me. You want to know the truth? I’d rather be a freak on my own terms than normal on someone else’s.”

Jeeny: “That’s not rebellion, Jack. That’s fear disguised as pride.”

Host: The bartender glanced up briefly, watching them in the mirror, two shadows in a storm, words their only weapons. The rain beat harder now, filling the silence that followed like a drum.

Jack: “You think Lennon was afraid?”

Jeeny: “Of course he was. Everyone who tells the truth is. But he didn’t hide behind it. He turned his fear into music. You just turn yours into armor.”

Jack: bitter laugh “Armor’s the only thing that’s kept me alive.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s what’s kept you alone.”

Host: Jack looked at her then, really looked, and something in his eyes shifted — not anger, not even defense, but a quiet kind of ache, the kind that comes when someone has spoken a truth you’ve avoided for too long.

Jack: “You make it sound like being different is supposed to be easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not supposed to be easy. It’s supposed to be honest. Lennon didn’t say he liked being a freak — he said he lived with it. He carried it. That’s courage, Jack. To carry your difference without letting it harden you.”

Jack: “So what am I supposed to do? Walk around smiling about being an outsider?”

Jeeny: “No. You live it without shame. That’s what he did. He made his strangeness into his song.”

Host: A moment passed, the kind that feels like a breath before thunder. Jack tilted his head, the smoke curling around his face, hiding the lines of fatigue but not the pain.

Jack: “You really think people like me can be understood?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not by everyone. But by someone, yes. Always by someone. You just have to let them close enough to try.”

Jack: “And if they don’t?”

Jeeny: “Then you still tell your story. Because the act of telling it — that’s the point. Not whether anyone listens.”

Host: The rain softened, tapering off into a distant hum. The neon light buzzed, casting a faint blue halo over their faces. The music in the background shifted — “Imagine” now, slow, haunting, gentle.

Jack: quietly “You know, maybe Lennon had it figured out. He stopped trying to belong to the world — and built one inside himself.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The trick isn’t to fit in, Jack. It’s to stop apologizing for who you are — and then to love others who can’t either.”

Jack: “Love, huh?” He smiles, but it’s softer now. “You always bring it back to that.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s the only rebellion that ever worked.”

Host: The bar grew quieter, the lights fading, the rain now a memory. Jack looked at her — and for the first time that night, there was a fragile peace in his eyes. Not resolution, not acceptance, but the beginning of something like self-forgiveness.

Jack: “You know what, Jeeny? Maybe being a freak isn’t a curse. Maybe it’s just the tax you pay for being real.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And the world needs the real ones — even if it doesn’t know how to love them.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — the two figures in a flickering bar, surrounded by the hum of a sleeping city, bathed in blue light. Jack lifted his bottle, a silent toast to the ghosts of every misfit who ever dared to stay true.

The music played on, the lyrics floating through the air — “You may say I’m a dreamer…”

And for once, Jack didn’t flinch at the word.

He just smiled, looked out into the rain-soaked night, and let himself belong to the only tribe that ever mattered — the beautiful, broken, unapologetic freaks who dared to be.