In almost every interview someone asks what does HIM stand for. I

Host:
The night lay heavy over the old bar, its walls breathing smoke and memory. A neon sign flickered above the door, bleeding crimson light into the mist that curled through the alleyway. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of whiskey, dust, and songs that had long forgotten their own meaning.

At a corner booth, Jack and Jeeny sat across from one another. A single candle burned between them, its flame trembling as if caught between breath and memory. The jukebox in the background hummed a low, melancholic tune, the kind that lingers even after the music has stopped.

Tonight’s conversation was born from irony — from the words of Ville Valo, whispered like an echo through the dim light:
"In almost every interview someone asks what does HIM stand for. I can't even remember our latest lie about that... The name doesn't have a particular history."

Jeeny: staring into the candlelight Funny, isn’t it? We spend our lives trying to name things — to give them meaning, to make them ours — and sometimes, the name means nothing at all.

Jack: leans back, smirking slightly Or maybe that’s the point. The name doesn’t need to mean anything. It’s just a container — something for the world to project their own meaning into.

Host:
The flame between them flickered, casting long shadows across the table. Jack’s eyes, grey and piercing, caught the light like steel, while Jeeny’s held the soft glow of question and wonder.

Jeeny: You think emptiness gives things power?

Jack: shrugs In a way, yes. Look at HIM — nobody knows what it stands for, and yet it stuck. It became myth. Mystery is the best marketing there is.

Jeeny: shakes her head gently That’s the kind of logic that kills the soul of art, Jack. Meaning matters. Even if it’s personal, even if it’s contradictory — it has to come from somewhere.

Jack: Maybe meaning is overrated. Maybe it’s the illusion that keeps us chained — thinking everything has to have some grand reason, some origin story. But what if it’s all just… noise?

Host:
The rain began to tap against the windows, soft but rhythmic, like a heartbeat muffled by distance. The bar was almost empty now — just the two of them, the bartender polishing an old glass, and the ghosts of a thousand forgotten songs drifting through the air.

Jeeny: smiling faintly Maybe it’s noise, but isn’t that what music is? Noise made intentional. Chaos turned into pattern. Meaning isn’t just found — it’s created.

Jack: Or fabricated. Like Valo said — they kept changing their story. “Hanson Is Murder.” “His Infernal Majesty.” “A death metal joke.” They made it up as they went along.

Jeeny: leans forward But that’s what makes it human, Jack. We’re all just making it up as we go. Stories, identities, beliefs — none of it’s fixed. It’s what we choose to tell, again and again, that makes it real.

Jack: chuckles dryly So you’re saying the lie becomes the truth if you repeat it long enough?

Jeeny: firmly Not the lie — the intention behind it. The need to be understood, to belong, to exist beyond a name.

Host:
The flame on the table flared, as if reacting to her words. A draft of wind swept through the room, rattling the bottles on the shelf. The shadows danced briefly, like memories struggling to stay alive.

Jack: quietly You talk like everything has a soul — even the empty things.

Jeeny: Because they do. Even emptiness holds echoes of what used to be full. The space inside a name is where people put their faith.

Jack: staring into his drink You know, I envy that. The way you find depth in the void. I look at it and see a hole; you look at it and see a mirror.

Jeeny: smiling softly Maybe that’s because mirrors are made of emptiness, too.

Host:
The music shifted — a slow, aching ballad from another era. The melody drifted like smoke, and for a moment, the world seemed to pause. Outside, the city lights blurred into watercolors of gold and black, the rain turning them into something almost holy.

Jack: So, what do you think HIM really stands for?

Jeeny: laughs softly Maybe it doesn’t stand for anything. Maybe it just is — a sound, a shape, a feeling. Sometimes we spend so much time trying to decode the word, we forget to listen to its echo.

Jack: That’s… poetic. And a little frustrating.

Jeeny: grinning That’s the beauty of it — it’s undefined. Like us.

Jack: raises an eyebrow Us?

Jeeny: All of us. The artists, the dreamers, the ones who keep creating even when they don’t know why. Maybe HIM isn’t just a band name — maybe it’s a confession. A way of saying: “We don’t know what we’re doing, but we’re still here.”

Host:
Jack’s expression softened, his usual skepticism giving way to a quiet, almost reluctant warmth. He looked at Jeeny, and for the first time that night, his voice carried less iron and more flesh.

Jack: Maybe you’re right. Maybe meaning isn’t found or fabricated — maybe it’s lived. Maybe HIM stands for everything we can’t quite explain but still feel.

Jeeny: nodding slowly Exactly. Maybe it stands for Heart in Motion. For the human impulse to create, to love, to mess up, and to start again.

Jack: half-smiling You just gave it more meaning than they ever did.

Jeeny: shrugs lightly Maybe we all do that — give others’ words the truth we wish they meant.

Host:
The rain had stopped now. The candle had burned low, its flame a small, trembling heart in the darkness. Outside, the city breathed again — its streets wet, its lights reborn in the reflections of the pavement.

Jack and Jeeny sat in silence, the kind that feels like music when words have done their work.

Jack: softly So, no real answer then. Just… questions.

Jeeny: smiles Maybe that’s the real answer. That there never was one.

Host:
And as the camera pulled back, the two figures became shadows against the dim barlight, small but infinite in their quiet understanding. The last note from the jukebox faded, leaving behind only the sound of breathing, time, and the unspoken truth that meaning, like music, doesn’t have to be defined — it only has to be felt.

Fade out.