It has been wild, you know? I started out just putting a song

Host: The city lights shimmered like spilled constellations across the rain-wet streets. A neon glow from a nearby bar sign flickered on and off, casting rhythmic pulses of blue and pink across Jack’s face. It was past midnight — that delicate hour when dreams and exhaustion blur together. Inside the dim bar, the air was thick with music, cigarette smoke, and the faint smell of whiskey and rain.

Jeeny sat across from Jack, a half-empty glass of rum before her, her eyes shining beneath the low light. The bartender wiped the counter lazily, and somewhere in the background, a Post Malone song drifted through the static-filled speaker — “Circles.”

Jeeny: “You ever think about how strange life can be, Jack? Post Malone said something once: ‘It’s been wild, you know? I started out just putting a song that I made out on the Internet without being sure if anyone was going to like it, and it took me on tour around the world with Justin Bieber. It’s been amazing!’”

Jack: “Yeah. Sounds like luck dressed as destiny.”

Jeeny: “Or destiny dressed as courage.”

Host: The music swelled faintly, echoing like a memory down the narrow hallway of the bar. Jack’s eyes were tired — the kind of tired that comes not from lack of sleep, but from too much reality.

Jack: “You call it courage. I call it randomness. Millions of people post songs online, Jeeny. One gets famous, and we pretend it’s fate.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what makes it beautiful? That out of millions, one voice rises? That it could happen to anyone who dares to try?”

Jack: “Or it could just be statistics. Someone had to win. That’s not magic, that’s math.”

Jeeny: “And yet the math doesn’t explain the heart behind it. The late nights. The fear. The hope. You think Post Malone just got lucky, but luck doesn’t make melodies. People do.”

Host: Rain streaked down the windows, catching the light like threads of silver. The crowd’s chatter dimmed for a moment as a man on stage strummed an acoustic guitar, his voice raw and trembling. The scene seemed to pause, like the universe was leaning in to listen.

Jack: “You romanticize it. But come on — the Internet is a lottery. For every Post Malone, there are ten thousand others who post songs no one ever hears. The world doesn’t reward effort. It rewards visibility.”

Jeeny: “Visibility comes from showing up, Jack. From daring to be seen. That’s effort, too.”

Jack: “No. That’s exposure. A click. An algorithm. Not talent. Not soul. We live in a time where attention is currency, and talent is an afterthought.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe Post Malone broke through because his soul was too loud for the algorithm to ignore.”

Host: Jack laughed, low and brief, a sharp sound that vanished into the hum of the bar. He leaned forward, the faint smell of whiskey between them.

Jack: “You always believe there’s some grand reason for success, don’t you? Some divine pattern hiding behind chaos.”

Jeeny: “And you always believe there’s no pattern at all.”

Jack: “Because there isn’t. Life’s a slot machine, Jeeny. Some people get cherries, others get lemons.”

Jeeny: “But someone still has to pull the lever.”

Host: Her words hung there, soft yet cutting. Jack’s gaze faltered for a moment. Outside, the rain slowed to a mist, and the streetlights blurred into halos.

Jack: “You’re saying we make our own luck?”

Jeeny: “I’m saying we give luck something to find. Post Malone didn’t wait for permission to create. He just did. That’s the magic.”

Jack: “Or desperation.”

Jeeny: “Desperation is a kind of courage too, Jack. When you risk rejection, you’re already winning something — honesty.”

Host: The bartender turned the music down, and for a moment, only the faint hiss of rain filled the room. Jeeny’s voice grew softer, trembling with conviction.

Jeeny: “You know why that story moves me? Because it reminds me how fragile possibility is. One upload — one song — and his life changed forever. It’s like the universe said, ‘I see you.’”

Jack: “And what about the ones the universe doesn’t see?”

Jeeny: “Maybe the universe sees them too — just differently. Not everyone’s meant to tour with Justin Bieber. Some are meant to change one heart, not a stadium.”

Jack: “That’s convenient optimism.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s perspective.”

Host: The lights flickered. Someone in the back laughed — a raw, drunken laugh that broke the moment. Jack looked away, staring at the reflection of the city in the wet windowpane.

Jack: “You think I don’t want to believe that? That maybe every effort matters? But look around. People drown in their dreams every day. The world doesn’t even notice.”

Jeeny: “But those dreams — those songs, those poems, those sketches — they still exist. They still add something to the human noise. Isn’t that worth something?”

Jack: “Existence isn’t enough. Recognition is the only proof that something mattered.”

Jeeny: “You’re wrong. Meaning isn’t what others give you, Jack. It’s what you give yourself.”

Host: Her words struck like a quiet bell, resonating beneath the music, through the pulse of the bar. Jack’s hand trembled slightly as he lifted his glass, but he didn’t drink.

Jack: “So you think Post Malone’s story is proof of hope?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s proof that the world still listens, sometimes. That maybe the universe rewards authenticity, even if it takes a while to find it.”

Jack: “You sound like one of those self-help podcasts.”

Jeeny: laughs softly “Maybe. But tell me, Jack — when was the last time you made something without worrying who’d like it?”

Host: The question hit him harder than the alcohol. His eyes drifted downward, tracing a ring of condensation on the wooden tabletop.

Jack: “It’s been a while.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s the problem. You stopped believing in the wild.”

Jack: “The wild?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The wildness of not knowing — of creating without certainty. That’s what Post was talking about. He didn’t know if anyone would listen. But he did it anyway. That’s faith.”

Jack: “Faith is for priests, not musicians.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Faith is for creators. For anyone who throws their soul into the unknown.”

Host: The rain stopped entirely now, leaving a clean hush outside. The air smelled of asphalt and electricity, the quiet aftermath of a storm.

Jack: “You make it sound heroic.”

Jeeny: “It is. Every song, every painting, every dream put into the world — it’s rebellion against silence.”

Jack: “And yet silence always wins in the end.”

Jeeny: “Only if we stop singing.”

Host: The clock above the bar ticked softly. Somewhere outside, a taxi horn honked, and a couple stumbled down the wet street, laughing under a shared umbrella.

Jeeny: “You know what I think? The Internet didn’t make Post Malone famous. His honesty did. He didn’t chase trends. He chased truth. And people felt that.”

Jack: “So you think truth is marketable?”

Jeeny: “Truth is contagious.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly — not mockingly this time, but with something like resignation. He swirled the last sip of whiskey in his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the neon light.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ve been too afraid to make noise.”

Jeeny: “Then make it. Even if no one listens.”

Jack: “And if no one ever does?”

Jeeny: “Then at least you’ll have lived loudly.”

Host: A beat of silence. The music changed — a live recording of “Stay.” Post Malone’s voice cracked through the speakers, raw and imperfect, the kind of imperfection that made it real.

Jeeny closed her eyes, listening.

Jeeny: “Hear that? That’s what it sounds like to risk being seen.”

Jack: “It sounds like freedom.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: Outside, the neon sign blinked one last time before going dark. The bar felt softer now, quieter, like a held breath. Jack looked up at Jeeny — and for the first time in a long while, something in his expression shifted.

Jack: “Maybe the wild isn’t so bad after all.”

Jeeny: “It never was. It’s just waiting for us to trust it again.”

Host: The rain clouds parted, revealing a stretch of city sky — bruised purple and silver. A faint hum of traffic echoed below, and somewhere in the distance, a street musician began to play.

The notes floated upward, free, imperfect, beautiful — like a song someone once posted online without knowing if anyone would ever hear it.

And in that moment, beneath the quiet hum of neon and night, both Jack and Jeeny smiled — two souls remembering what it means to believe in something wild, beautiful, and amazing.