I'm ultimately a widow and a single mother, who's not even

Host: The night was thick with rain, the kind that soaks the city until even the lights seem to weep. The streets were almost empty, save for the occasional taxi cutting through the dark like a small act of defiance. In a half-forgotten apartment building overlooking the river, the windows flickered with the soft orange glow of one remaining lamp.

Inside, the room was both messy and lonely — records scattered on the floor, photographs curling at the edges, a single glass of untouched wine catching the light. Jeeny sat by the window, her knees drawn close, her hair still damp from the rain. Jack leaned against the wall, his hands in his pockets, his eyes shadowed, quietly watching her.

On the table between them, a notebook lay open, the ink still fresh. At the top of the page, she had written a quote and underlined it twice:

"I’m ultimately a widow and a single mother, who’s not even getting to be a mother right now. I am so alone, it’s freaky." — Courtney Love

The rain hit the window harder, like the world itself was echoing her words.

Jeeny: (softly) It’s strange, isn’t it? You can be surrounded by noise, by people, by everything that used to make sense — and still, the silence inside is deafening.

Jack: (nods slowly) Yeah. Loneliness doesn’t always come from being alone. Sometimes it comes from being unseen.

Jeeny: (turns toward him) That’s what Courtney meant, I think. Not just loneliness — disconnection. She’s not just missing someone. She’s missing her own reflection in the world.

Jack: (quietly) That’s the cruelest part of grief. It doesn’t just take away the person — it takes away the version of yourself that existed with them.

Host: A pause stretched between them, the kind that isn’t empty but heavy — full of unspoken things. The lamp flickered once, then steadied, casting their faces in uneven light.

Jeeny: You ever feel that, Jack? Like you’re living, but the person you used to be is still somewhere behind you, calling out — and you just don’t turn around anymore?

Jack: (exhales slowly) Every day. I think that’s what aging is, really. Losing versions of yourself you never properly buried.

Jeeny: (staring out the window) She’s grieving more than a husband. She’s grieving the life that defined her — the chaos, the music, the wildness. To be a widow isn’t just to lose love. It’s to lose the only witness who knew who you were before the mask hardened.

Jack: (low voice) You make it sound poetic.

Jeeny: It is poetic. And tragic.

Host: A car horn sounded below, distant and mournful. The river’s reflection shivered with passing light. The room smelled faintly of rain, wine, and something else — the quiet decay of memory.

Jack: You know, when she said “I am so alone, it’s freaky,” I don’t think it was confession. It was diagnosis. Like she was trying to name a disease the world doesn’t have medicine for.

Jeeny: (nods) Loneliness is like that. It’s not a wound. It’s an atmosphere.

Jack: (frowns) But people love to prescribe things for it, don’t they? Work harder. Date again. Join something. Pretend louder.

Jeeny: (smiles sadly) Pretend louder — that’s perfect. Society doesn’t fix loneliness, it just teaches you to disguise it.

Host: The rain softened. Drops slid down the window, tracing crooked paths — small, quiet movements that seemed almost human. Jeeny’s fingers followed one, slowly, as if it could answer her.

Jeeny: (after a moment) You know what breaks me about that quote? The part where she says she’s not even getting to be a mother. It’s not just loss — it’s interruption. Like being cut off mid-song.

Jack: (sits down across from her) Yeah. It’s like grief inside grief. You lose your partner, and then the world tells you you’re not enough to hold what’s left.

Jeeny: (quietly) It’s a cruel irony — the stronger you are, the more people assume you don’t need saving.

Jack: (nods) That’s the curse of survivors. People stop checking if you’re still bleeding because they’ve decided you healed.

Host: The wind outside shifted, rattling the windowpane. For a moment, the sound felt like something trying to get in, or maybe something trying to get out.

Jeeny: You know, I think about her — Courtney — and how people mocked her grief. How they turned her pain into entertainment. That’s what fame does, doesn’t it? It monetizes the wound before it even closes.

Jack: (grimly) That’s not just fame. That’s all of us now. Everyone’s a performer in their own tragedy, waiting for the algorithm to clap.

Jeeny: (bitterly) The world doesn’t offer comfort anymore. It offers commentary.

Jack: (smirks, eyes hardening) And empathy became performance art.

Jeeny: (after a pause) But still, she said it out loud. I am so alone, it’s freaky. Do you realize how rare that is? Most people never name it.

Jack: (softly) Maybe naming it is the only way to survive it.

Host: Her eyes glistened in the faint light. She didn’t cry — but there was something more honest than tears in her stillness. Jack’s voice had grown lower, more fragile, like the words themselves could break if pushed too hard.

Jeeny: (almost whispering) Loneliness isn’t just about being without people. It’s about being without purpose. When your life stops echoing back meaning, that’s when the fear starts. That’s what she meant by “freaky.” The emptiness becomes sentient.

Jack: (after a moment) You’re right. It’s like the room starts watching you. Every object becomes a reminder that you’re the only witness left.

Jeeny: (shivers) That’s why people chase noise — not joy, not company. Just noise. Anything to drown the echo.

Jack: (softly) But silence… silence is honest. It doesn’t lie to you.

Jeeny: (looks at him) Maybe. But sometimes honesty kills.

Host: A long pause filled the room. The rain stopped completely now. Stillness pressed in from all sides, as if the whole world were holding its breath.

Jack: (quietly) You ever been that alone? The kind that feels like you’ve stepped out of existence, and the world just… kept going?

Jeeny: (looks down) Once. After my father died. The days felt hollow — like the world had no walls. Every sound echoed too long. Every silence stayed too loud.

Jack: (nods) That’s it. That’s the kind of loneliness she meant. Not absence — void.

Jeeny: (softly) But you came back.

Jack: (after a pause) Did I?

Jeeny: (meeting his eyes) You’re here, aren’t you? Talking about it. That counts.

Host: A small smile ghosted across his face — the kind of smile that knows better than to linger. Jeeny reached for the wine glass, poured a little into both their cups, and the act itself felt like defiance — a ceremony for the living.

Jeeny: (softly) You know, I think loneliness is what connects us most. It’s the one thing everyone feels but no one wants to admit.

Jack: (raises his glass) So — to loneliness. The one universal language.

Jeeny: (clinks lightly) No. To connection — the only rebellion against it.

Host: The wine caught the light, deep and red, like liquid memory. They both drank, not to forget, but to remember — that to speak loneliness aloud is to cut its power in half.

The city lights shimmered on the wet streets below. Somewhere, far off, a song began — soft, distant, human.

And in that small room, two people sat quietly, sharing silence, sharing grief, and — for the first time in a long while — not feeling freaky alone at all.

The lamp dimmed. The rain stayed gone. The world waited, warm and still.