I'm very happy alone.

Host: The rain had just stopped, leaving the city streets slick and shining beneath the low amber glow of the streetlamps. The air smelled of petrichor and electricity — the kind of quiet that follows a storm, where even time seems to exhale.

Host: Through the wide front windows of a small café, light spilled onto the sidewalk. Inside, the sound of jazz drifted softly from an old radio — the saxophone low, smoky, content to be unheard.

Host: At a corner table, Jack sat alone, tracing his finger idly along the rim of his coffee cup. Jeeny entered a few minutes later, shaking rain from her coat, her dark hair damp and glistening. She spotted him immediately and smiled — not the bright, social smile of greeting, but the warm, unspoken kind that exists only between two people who have shared long silences before.

Jeeny: (sitting down, quietly) “Octavia E. Butler once said, ‘I’m very happy alone.’”
(She looks at him for a beat.) “That’s such a dangerous sentence, isn’t it?”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Dangerous to whom?”

Jeeny: “To a world that still believes happiness must come in pairs.”

Jack: (leaning back) “Yeah. People treat solitude like it’s a symptom — something you’re supposed to outgrow.”

Jeeny: “But Butler never outgrew it. She made it her habitat.”

Jack: “She didn’t just live alone. She thought alone. Created alone. She knew solitude wasn’t the absence of people — it was the presence of self.”

Host: The steam rose from their cups, curling into the soft golden light. Around them, the café was nearly empty — just an elderly man reading a newspaper at the counter and the barista humming quietly to herself.

Jeeny: “You think she was really happy, though? Or was that something she said to convince herself?”

Jack: (after a pause) “Maybe both. Happiness doesn’t have to be constant to be true. I think she meant she found peace in her own company — and peace is rarer than joy.”

Jeeny: “That’s the kind of happiness that doesn’t depend on applause.”

Jack: “Exactly. And in a world built on noise, silence becomes sacred.”

Host: A car passed outside, its tires slicing through a puddle, sending ripples of reflected light trembling across the café wall.

Jeeny: “You know what’s strange? Solitude still makes people uncomfortable. If you say you’re happy alone, they think you’re lonely. If you say you need space, they think something’s wrong.”

Jack: “Because our culture confuses connection with company. We think being surrounded means being seen.”

Jeeny: “And sometimes, the more people you’re around, the less you exist.”

Jack: (nodding) “Yeah. Butler got that. She saw how noise can erase individuality. Being alone was her rebellion against erasure.”

Host: The rain began again, light and rhythmic — not the furious storm of before, but the soft, introspective kind that seems to fall for the sake of falling.

Jeeny: (looking out the window) “You ever feel that way, Jack? Like you’re happy alone?”

Jack: (smiling) “More than I used to. Took me years to understand that solitude isn’t emptiness — it’s alignment. It’s when all your scattered selves finally sit at the same table.”

Jeeny: “I like that.”

Jack: “It’s true. When you’re young, being alone feels like a failure. When you’re older, it feels like mastery.”

Jeeny: “Because you’ve stopped needing proof of existence from other people.”

Jack: “Exactly. You stop being a reflection and start being a source.”

Host: The barista dimmed the lights, signaling closing time soon, but neither of them moved. The café had turned into a cocoon — warm, golden, untouched by the chaos outside.

Jeeny: “You know, Butler once said she wrote because she couldn’t imagine doing anything else. Writing was her way of being alone without being lonely.”

Jack: “Yeah. She turned solitude into creation. That’s the trick — finding purpose in the quiet.”

Jeeny: “But that’s rare now. We fill silence with screens, with chatter, with constant motion. Anything to avoid meeting ourselves.”

Jack: “Because solitude is honest. It doesn’t flatter. It doesn’t distract. It tells you exactly who you are.”

Jeeny: “And not everyone wants to know.”

Host: The rain deepened again, a slow steady rhythm against the glass. The sound filled the silence like punctuation.

Jeeny: “You think people can ever really learn to be alone?”

Jack: “Maybe not completely. But they can learn to stop fearing it. Happiness alone isn’t the same as isolation — it’s independence without bitterness.”

Jeeny: “And maybe it’s also love — just turned inward.”

Jack: (smiling) “Yeah. Self-intimacy. The kind of love that doesn’t demand translation.”

Jeeny: “You think that’s selfish?”

Jack: “No. I think it’s foundation. You can’t build connection on dependency. Two complete people love differently than two incomplete ones.”

Jeeny: “That’s beautiful.”

Jack: “It’s also rare. Because most people are afraid to discover how little they need.”

Host: The clock above the counter ticked softly. The barista smiled as she wiped down the last of the tables, but didn’t rush them. The air felt suspended — still, like a held breath before the next moment of movement.

Jeeny: “You know, I think Butler’s happiness came from sovereignty — the right to define herself on her own terms. Not as someone’s daughter, or wife, or muse, but as her own universe.”

Jack: “That’s what solitude gives you — the freedom to become without translation. The freedom to exist unobserved.”

Jeeny: (gently) “Maybe that’s what we all crave — not love, not attention, just the right to exist quietly, fully, without explanation.”

Jack: “And without danger.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The rain began to slow, tapering into a faint drizzle. Outside, the city was washed clean again — new, shimmering, patient.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how solitude teaches gratitude? When you’re alone long enough, you stop taking company for granted. You see people for what they are — not what you need them to be.”

Jack: “Yeah. It sharpens affection. Makes every presence feel like a choice, not a requirement.”

Jeeny: “And that makes love deeper.”

Jack: “And rarer.”

Host: The radio clicked off, leaving only the sound of the rain. The silence wasn’t empty — it was complete.

Jeeny: “You know, it’s funny. Butler said she was happy alone. But maybe what she really meant was that she was whole alone.”

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe that’s the same thing.”

Host: They sat for a while longer, saying nothing, both watching their reflections in the glass — two figures, separate yet side by side, framed by the quiet intimacy of shared solitude.

And in that still moment,
Octavia E. Butler’s words seemed to breathe between them:

that solitude is not exile,
but arrival;
that to be alone and content
is not to reject love,
but to understand it;
and that the greatest peace
is not found in another’s arms,
but in one’s own unshakable selfhood.

Host: The lights dimmed completely now. The barista locked the door behind them as they stepped out into the rain.

And as they walked their separate ways —
not apart, but parallel —
the night held them both gently,
proof that happiness need not be shared to be real.