It was my 16th birthday - my mom and dad gave me my Goya

Host: The night was heavy with the scent of cedar and rain-soaked asphalt. Through the cracked window of a dimly lit studio, the hum of an old amplifier whispered like a heartbeat. Strings, vinyl sleeves, and scribbled lyrics covered every inch of the room — a quiet chaos that smelled of dreams and cigarette smoke.
In the corner, a worn-out Goya guitar leaned against the wall, its wood warm from years of touch. Jack sat cross-legged on the floor, his fingers tracing the instrument’s body, while Jeeny perched on the windowsill, one foot tapping softly against the glass, her eyes watching the city lights blink below.

Jack: “Stevie Nicks said she knew, the moment she picked up her Goya, that this was it — that music was her only way through the world.” He gave a dry, thoughtful smile, eyes fixed on the strings. “Must be nice to know like that. To find your thing at sixteen.”

Jeeny: “It’s not about knowing,” she said softly. “It’s about feeling. You don’t choose something like that — it claims you.”

Host: A single light bulb flickered above them, casting shadows across the walls like restless ghosts. Somewhere, faint music from another apartment bled through the night — a guitar, maybe, or someone’s fragile dream reaching out.

Jack: “Feeling’s overrated. The world runs on practicality. You can’t live on chords and poetry. For every Stevie Nicks, there are a thousand dreamers who end up broke, teaching part-time or waiting tables.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But the world doesn’t move because of those who settle. It moves because of those who believe they have no other choice.”

Host: Jack’s fingers strummed the strings — awkwardly, absently — releasing a hesitant, broken melody. The sound trembled in the small space, soft but alive. His eyes were distant, gray like smoke before rain.

Jack: “Belief doesn’t pay rent, Jeeny. I believed once. I used to think writing could mean something — that words could save people. But somewhere between bills and broken promises, I stopped listening to that sixteen-year-old kid inside me.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe he’s still waiting. Maybe he’s still strumming, still writing, waiting for you to come back.”

Host: The rain began again, gentle and rhythmic, tapping the windowpane like a quiet metronome. Jeeny’s hair shimmered in the dim light, strands glowing like threads of ink.

Jeeny: “Stevie didn’t say it was easy. She said it was the only thing she could ever really do. That’s what love for art feels like — not luxury, but survival.”

Jack: “You make it sound like a curse.”

Jeeny: “It is. But it’s a beautiful one.”

Host: He looked up at her — his expression a mix of defiance and yearning. The lamp buzzed. A train horn cried faintly in the distance.

Jack: “You talk like art is oxygen. But what if it’s just noise? What if all those songs and stories we tell ourselves are just ways to avoid silence?”

Jeeny: “Maybe silence is exactly what art is made of — the silence that breaks inside us until we have to give it a voice.”

Host: Her words fell into the room like dust motes caught in light. Jack ran his hand through his hair, sighing, then picked up the guitar and strummed again, harder this time — a raw, uneven sound that filled the small studio with something almost holy.

Jack: “You think she really knew? That Stevie — sitting there at sixteen — knew she’d live her whole life inside a song?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Not because she saw her future, but because she felt her soul recognize itself.”

Jack: “Recognize itself?”

Jeeny: “We all get that one moment — when something inside us says, this is me. It’s not logic. It’s truth.”

Host: A neon sign outside flickered red and blue, casting shifting colors across their faces. The city beyond seemed alive with quiet urgency — car lights passing like thoughts, a siren echoing like a distant melody.

Jack: “I used to play every night when I was a kid,” he said, voice low. “Mom used to stand at the door, listening. Said I had something real. Then she died, and I stopped. Sold the guitar to pay rent.”

Jeeny: “But you bought this one.”

Jack: “Yeah.” He gave a faint smile. “Couldn’t stand the silence anymore.”

Host: The sound of rain deepened, merging with the strumming of the guitar — the two rhythms blending like heartbeat and breath.

Jeeny: “Maybe you didn’t stop loving music, Jack. Maybe you just stopped forgiving yourself for living.”

Jack: “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jeeny: “You punish yourself for growing up. For letting go of the boy who dreamed. But he’s still here, trying to play his song through your hands.”

Host: He looked down, his fingers trembling slightly as they pressed against the frets. A few wrong notes slipped out, sharp and human. He laughed under his breath, the sound small but real.

Jack: “Guess he’s rusty.”

Jeeny: “He’s not rusty. He’s waiting to be heard.”

Host: A brief, quiet moment passed — the kind that doesn’t demand words. Jack’s eyes lifted again, meeting Jeeny’s. The room hummed with an energy that wasn’t just sound but belonging.

Jack: “You really believe people can find their purpose in something as simple as music?”

Jeeny: “It’s never simple. But yes. Some people write to survive. Others sing because silence would kill them.”

Host: The lamp light flickered again — the bulb nearing its end, but still holding on, stubbornly burning against the darkness.

Jack: “And what about the ones who never find it? The ones who never feel that lightning in their veins like Stevie did?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe their gift isn’t in doing, but in listening. Not everyone is meant to sing. Some are meant to hear the song and carry it forward.”

Host: The rain slowed to a whisper. The guitar’s resonance lingered long after the last note.

Jack: “You think we ever really choose who we become?”

Jeeny: “I think the truest parts of us choose for us. We just spend our lives catching up.”

Jack: “So maybe I was always meant to write. Even if no one reads it.”

Jeeny: “Especially if no one does. That’s when it’s real.”

Host: He strummed one final chord — soft, imperfect, but honest. The sound hung in the air like a confession.

Jeeny: “There it is,” she whispered. “That’s you.”

Jack: “It’s messy.”

Jeeny: “So is truth.”

Host: The city outside sighed as if in agreement. A breeze slipped through the window, carrying the faint scent of rain and electric light. The lamp flickered once more, then steadied — warm and golden.

Jack: “You know, maybe Stevie wasn’t talking about destiny. Maybe she was talking about surrender — that moment you stop pretending you could ever be anything else.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The moment you realize that the only thing you can ever really do — the only thing that makes you you — is the song you were born to sing.”

Host: He nodded slowly, eyes glistening as if lit from within. The guitar rested gently in his lap, its strings humming faintly from the echo of touch.

Jeeny: “Play it again, Jack.”

Jack: “Which one?”

Jeeny: “The one that hurts.”

Host: He began to play — a fragile melody, half memory, half prayer. The notes quivered in the still air, raw, tender, alive. And as he played, Jeeny closed her eyes, letting the sound wash over her like rain on glass.

Outside, the city kept its pulse — indifferent, infinite. But in that small, flickering room, something eternal was happening:
A man remembering his purpose.
A woman believing in his fire.
And a song — reborn in the trembling hands of someone who finally remembered how to feel.

When the last note faded, the silence that followed was sacred.

And in that silence, Jack whispered, almost to himself —
“Maybe this was always the only thing I could ever really do.”

Host: The light dimmed to gold. The guitar’s shadow stretched across the floor like a river. Somewhere deep inside the soundless room, a spark — old as sixteen, young as forever — began to hum again.