It says on the back of the Nyquil box, 'May cause drowsiness.' It

Host: The city was half-asleep, its lights smeared by the drizzle that clung to the cracked windows of a late-night pharmacy. A flickering sign buzzed weakly — 24 HOURS — as if mocking the idea that anything, or anyone, could truly stay awake that long. Inside, the air was heavy with the smell of medicine, plastic, and faint loneliness.

Jack leaned on the counter, his coat damp, his eyes rimmed with exhaustion. In front of him lay a half-empty bottle of NyQuil, the label catching the fluorescent light like a quiet warning.

Jeeny sat nearby, cross-legged on one of the plastic chairs, sipping from a paper cup of vending machine coffee, watching him with that same mix of concern and amusement she always carried.

Host: It was 3:17 a.m. — the hour when humor and truth start to sound like the same thing.

Jeeny: “Denis Leary once said, ‘It says on the back of the NyQuil box, “May cause drowsiness.” It should say, “Don’t make any plans, OK? Kiss your family and friends good-bye.”’”

Host: Her voice was light, teasing, but behind the humor, something deeper stirred — the weariness of two people too familiar with numbness.

Jack: (grinning faintly) “That man wasn’t joking. I took some an hour ago, and I swear, my soul is two seconds from leaving my body. If I fall asleep now, I might wake up in another century.”

Jeeny: “Wouldn’t that be a relief? A world without emails, deadlines, or taxes. Just eternal rest and peaceful oblivion.”

Jack: “You make it sound noble. But it’s not peace — it’s escape. That’s what all of this is.”

Host: He gestured toward the shelf lined with bottles and boxes — sleeping pills, cold medicines, the modern alchemy of temporary forgetfulness.

Jack: “We’re a civilization addicted to pause buttons. Can’t deal with pain? Here’s a pill. Can’t sleep? Here’s a stronger pill. Can’t live? Drink some NyQuil and call it rest.”

Jeeny: “Maybe we need the pause sometimes, Jack. You call it escape; I call it survival. Not everyone can face the noise all the time.”

Jack: “But when does a pause become a coma? You ever notice how easy it is to just keep numbing yourself until the days stop feeling different?”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the real illness — not the cold, but the emptiness we’re trying to cure.”

Host: The fluorescent light above them buzzed again, an almost comic punctuation to the gravity of her words. A man at the back coughed. The cashier yawned. The city’s heart beat faintly in the distance, muffled by rain.

Jack: “You ever think that Leary wasn’t really talking about NyQuil? Maybe he meant how easily we surrender to comfort. How a small dose of ease can make us forget what being awake feels like.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But don’t you think there’s also something… tender in that? We’re all so tired, Jack. Not just physically. Spiritually. Maybe we’ve earned a little sleep.”

Jack: “Sleep, sure. But not sedation. There’s a difference. One’s rest; the other’s resignation.”

Host: The rain outside picked up, streaming down the window in restless lines, like the world itself was trying to stay awake.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve got something personal against NyQuil.”

Jack: “Not NyQuil. Just what it represents — our need to be numb. The way we all take our little doses of escape, whether it’s a bottle, a screen, or a lie we tell ourselves.”

Jeeny: “You’re not wrong. But sometimes, numbness is all that stands between collapse and continuing. My mother used to drink chamomile tea and whisper, ‘Just get through the night.’ She wasn’t trying to escape. She was trying to endure.”

Jack: “That’s the thing. We don’t know the difference anymore — between enduring and erasing. Between rest and retreat.”

Host: He took a long breath, exhaling slowly. The bottle of NyQuil glowed faintly under the light, almost like a religious relic of modern fatigue.

Jeeny: “You ever notice, though, how Leary’s line is funny because it’s true? The way we laugh at what scares us most? We laugh because we recognize the truth behind the absurdity.”

Jack: “Yeah. Because it’s easier to joke about being asleep than to admit we’re terrified of waking up.”

Host: Their laughter — quiet, tired, real — filled the small pharmacy, echoing softly off the linoleum. It wasn’t loud or carefree; it was the kind of laughter people share when they both understand something too heavy to say out loud.

Jeeny: “You ever think maybe we’re addicted to fatigue itself? Like we make exhaustion our badge of worth. If you’re tired, it must mean you’re doing something right.”

Jack: “Yeah. Productivity — the new religion. Sleep as sin, burnout as virtue.”

Jeeny: “And NyQuil as forgiveness.”

Host: The two of them laughed again, softer this time, but there was a flicker of warmth in it — a spark against the sterile glow of the pharmacy.

Jack: “You know, there’s a strange irony in all this. We take NyQuil to escape our cold, but maybe it’s the only time we’re truly still. The only time the noise stops.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why it’s dangerous — not the drowsiness, but the silence it gives us. Silence can be addictive.”

Jack: “You ever wonder if that’s why we never stop talking, scrolling, filling every second? Because the moment it’s quiet, we might have to listen to ourselves?”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the scariest part — that we’d hear the truth and not recognize the voice anymore.”

Host: A long silence fell between them. Outside, the rain slowed. The fluorescent hum softened. Somewhere deep in the city, a siren wailed and faded away.

Jack looked at the bottle again, then set it back on the counter with care, as if returning something fragile.

Jack: “Maybe I’ll skip it tonight.”

Jeeny: “You sure? You look like you could use some oblivion.”

Jack: “Yeah. But I could also use a little clarity.”

Host: Jeeny smiled, small and understanding — the kind of smile that doesn’t try to fix, only to share.

Jeeny: “Fair trade. I’ll stay awake with you then.”

Host: They sat there, the two of them, bathed in the artificial light of sleepless humanity — the kind of moment that lives quietly but lingers forever.

Outside, the first hint of dawn began to bloom across the horizon, pale and cautious. The city stirred in its restless dream, and for once, neither of them reached for the NyQuil or the noise.

They just breathed, and let the night end on its own.

And in that fragile space between fatigue and awakening, humor became truth,
and rest — for the first time — felt earned.