It's not necessarily bad that you have angst or you have anger -

Host: The night was thick with rain, each drop a small hammer against the rusted roof of an abandoned diner off the interstate. Neon lights flickered, blue and red, reflecting in puddles that looked like broken glass on asphalt. Steam rose from a half-empty cup of coffee. The air carried the scent of old grease, wet metal, and restlessness.

Jack sat by the window, his grey eyes lost in the shimmer of headlights passing through the storm. His hands were clasped, veins tense, as though holding back something feral. Jeeny sat across from him, her hair damp, her fingers wrapped around her mug like it was a source of warmth in a cold world.

For a long while, neither spoke. Only the rain, the buzz of the sign, and the distant howl of a freight train filled the void.

Then, quietly, Jack broke the silence.

Jack: “You ever wonder if all this—this anger we carry—means we’re still alive? Or if it’s just proof that something’s broken inside?”

Jeeny: “Anger isn’t the enemy, Jack. It’s the signal. It tells you something’s wrong, something you can’t ignore. Sam Esmail once said—‘It’s not necessarily bad that you have angst or anger. It’s what you do with it, how you interpret it into something profoundly moving.’”

Host: Her voice was soft, but it cut through the sound of the rain like a razor through fog. Jack looked up, the reflection of neon dancing in his eyes, his jaw tightening.

Jack: “Interpret it? That’s poetic, Jeeny, but in the real world, people don’t interpret. They explode. They ruin their lives, or someone else’s. You ever seen a man fired after thirty years and still smile about it? Anger doesn’t make art—it makes wreckage.”

Jeeny: “And yet, some of the greatest art, the deepest music, the most haunting films—were born from wreckage. Vincent van Gogh’s madness, Nina Simone’s rage, Kubrick’s obsession—all of it came from the same place. They didn’t hide from the fire; they shaped it.”

Host: Jack laughed, but the sound was dry, without joy. He reached for his cigarette, the flame of the lighter momentarily painting his face in orange glow.

Jack: “You think van Gogh wanted to be a legend? He wanted peace. The man cut off his ear, Jeeny. You call that transforming pain? That’s surrender, not creation.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he surrendered to pain, but not to silence. His paintings scream louder than his words ever could. That’s what Esmail meant—anger can be art, if you give it meaning.”

Host: The rain slowed. Drops tapped the windowpane like fingers testing a heartbeat. Jack looked away, his reflection staring back at him, older, tired, haunted by something unspoken.

Jack: “You talk about meaning as if everyone gets that choice. You think the kid in the riot, the soldier with a gun, the woman losing her home—they can all turn their anger into something ‘moving’? No, Jeeny. Most people just burn. That’s reality.”

Jeeny: “Reality isn’t fixed, Jack. It’s built by what people do with their pain. Martin Luther King turned rage into revolution, not violence. Malala turned fear into voice. People do it every day—you just don’t see them because they don’t make the news.”

Host: Her eyes glimmered like embers catching light. Jack’s brow furrowed; his hands trembled slightly as if her words had reached a place he didn’t want touched.

Jack: “Maybe they’re the exception. Maybe most of us are just… ordinary. Maybe anger doesn’t make us profound—it makes us human, flawed, desperate, selfish.”

Jeeny: “Then let it. But don’t waste it. Anger is raw energy. It’s what built civilizations and tore them down. It’s not the feeling that’s wrong—it’s the direction.”

Host: Outside, the storm eased into a drizzle. The diner lights hummed softly. The clock ticked, steady as a heartbeat, while steam curled from their coffee like the ghost of forgotten words.

Jeeny leaned forward, her voice trembling but firm.

Jeeny: “You’ve been angry a long time, Jack. You pretend it’s gone, but I see it in your eyes every time someone talks about the past. You keep it locked inside like a loaded gun. Why?”

Jack: “Because every time I let it out, it breaks something. People, promises, myself. So, I keep it buried.”

Jeeny: “And does that make it disappear?”

Host: Jack’s silence was heavy. His fingers traced the rim of the cup, eyes unfocused, as if searching for something beyond the fogged glass.

Jack: “No. It festers. It waits.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you’re not supposed to bury it. Maybe you’re supposed to use it—to build, to change, to create. Esmail was right—if you don’t interpret your pain, it interprets you.”

Host: Her words landed like raindrops on steel. For a moment, the diner seemed to hold its breath. The hum of the refrigerator, the crackle of the neon, the slow drip of the leak above—all merged into a single, low pulse.

Jack: “You talk like there’s redemption in everything. But what if some of us don’t deserve it?”

Jeeny: “Deserve? No one earns the right to heal, Jack. They just start doing it.”

Host: The words broke something open. Jack’s eyes softened, the lines in his face no longer walls but cracks—letting something light through. He leaned back, the smoke curling above him like a veil.

Jack: “You ever think that maybe Esmail’s right not because it’s poetic—but because it’s practical? If you don’t make something out of your anger, it’ll make something out of you. Something you won’t recognize.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The choice isn’t between anger and peace—it’s between destruction and transformation.”

Host: A long pause followed. The rain outside had stopped completely now, leaving behind a mirror of the sky on the pavement. A single car passed, its tires whispering over water.

Jack’s voice was low, almost tender.

Jack: “You know… there was this one time, in Afghanistan. We lost a kid. Nineteen. We were furious—at the system, at command, at God. The next day, one of the guys built a small memorial out of shell casings and scrap metal. It was ugly. But it meant something. Maybe that’s what you mean. Turning anger into… meaning.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly what I mean. Pain doesn’t vanish when you honor it—it transforms.”

Host: The diner clock struck midnight. A faint mist began to form on the windows, catching the light like frosted glass.

Jeeny stood, pulling her coat tighter. Jack followed, his eyes softer, his steps slower.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, maybe that’s all we can do with our anger—make it build something instead of burn.”

Jack: “Yeah. Maybe it’s not about avoiding the fire. It’s about learning how to hold it.”

Host: As they stepped outside, the air was clean, the sky just beginning to clear. A faint glow of moonlight slipped between the clouds, bathing the world in a quiet silver. Jack and Jeeny walked side by side, their footsteps echoing in the wet silence.

The camera would linger here—two figures, half-shadowed, half-illuminated—walking away from the storm, not untouched, but changed.

For the first time in a long while, their anger was no longer a burden, but a compass—pointing not to destruction, but to something profoundly human.