I've been singing since I could talk. I started playing the piano

Host: The recording studio breathed softly in the blue hour — that fragile window of twilight when the sky hesitates between day and night. Dust motes drifted through slanted light from a single window, settling gently on instruments that waited like loyal companions: a piano, an old acoustic guitar, and a microphone that smelled faintly of memory and metal.

On the stool near the piano sat Jack, sleeves rolled, cigarette unlit, the look of a man listening to a sound only he could hear. Jeeny leaned against the far wall, her dark hair loose, her bare feet crossed at the ankles. She was quiet — not because she had nothing to say, but because music was already saying it better.

Host: The space felt alive with invisible rhythm — the kind that lives in silence before a song is born.

Jeeny: “You’ve been in here since morning.”

Jack: “You can’t rush a song.”

Jeeny: “You can overthink one, though.”

Jack: “That’s how I know it’s almost done.”

Jeeny: “You said that three hours ago.”

Jack: “It’s still true.”

Host: Her laugh was soft — the kind that comes from someone who’s learned to love the madness that drives a creator.

Jeeny: “Grace Potter said something once that made me think of you: ‘I’ve been singing since I could talk. I started playing the piano when I was about 5 or 6. I picked up the guitar on my 20th birthday.’ That kind of dedication — it’s like breathing on purpose.”

Jack: “Yeah. People like her don’t learn music. They remember it.”

Jeeny: “Remember it?”

Jack: “Like it’s been waiting for them all along.”

Host: The light dimmed, the last of the sunset crawling across the walls, turning cables and sheet music into shadows of sound.

Jeeny: “You ever think about when you started?”

Jack: “Not really.”

Jeeny: “Why not?”

Jack: “Because it never felt like starting. More like waking up.”

Jeeny: “That’s how Grace said it too — singing before she could talk. Imagine that. Music before words.”

Jack: “That’s how you know it’s real. When expression comes before explanation.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound sacred.”

Jack: “It is. Every song’s a prayer — even the broken ones.”

Host: He tapped the piano keys, gently, aimlessly — not melody, just conversation in sound.

Jeeny: “Do you ever wish you’d started earlier? Piano, guitar, any of it?”

Jack: “No. The timing’s the lesson. The music finds you when you’re ready to hear it.”

Jeeny: “Grace picked up the guitar at 20. I like that. Not too late, not too early — just… aligned.”

Jack: “Yeah. The guitar’s not an instrument, it’s a mirror. You pick it up only when you’ve got something worth saying.”

Jeeny: “And you?”

Jack: “I picked it up when silence stopped being enough.”

Host: Outside, the first streetlights blinked on, their glow mixing with the studio lamps, creating a warmth that felt like memory stretching across time.

Jeeny: “You talk about music like it’s therapy.”

Jack: “It is. The kind that doesn’t fix you, but holds you while you break.”

Jeeny: “That’s beautiful.”

Jack: “That’s survival.”

Jeeny: “You think Grace feels that way?”

Jack: “Anyone who’s lived in rhythm does. Music isn’t what you do. It’s what saves you.”

Jeeny: “From what?”

Jack: “From silence pretending to be peace.”

Host: He strummed a chord, low and resonant, letting it ring into the room until it faded — a heartbeat dissolving into the hum of fluorescent light.

Jeeny: “You ever think about what makes someone like her special? Why some people can turn noise into healing?”

Jack: “It’s not talent. It’s translation.”

Jeeny: “Translation?”

Jack: “Yeah. Grace Potter doesn’t sing songs — she interprets emotion. She’s fluent in things most people only feel vaguely.”

Jeeny: “And that’s what you try to do?”

Jack: “Try? No. I fail gloriously at it every day. But the failure’s the art.”

Jeeny: “You sound like you’re romanticizing struggle.”

Jack: “Struggle’s romantic because it’s honest. Nobody sings from comfort. Not really.”

Host: The sound of rain began outside, gentle, steady — percussion for reflection.

Jeeny: “You know, Grace’s story reminds me that mastery doesn’t come from ambition. It comes from relationship.”

Jack: “Exactly. You don’t conquer an instrument. You learn how to listen to it.”

Jeeny: “That’s why I love the way she said it — ‘I picked up the guitar on my 20th birthday.’ Like she was meeting an old friend she didn’t know she missed.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what all art is — reunions.”

Jeeny: “With what?”

Jack: “With who we were before the world taught us to be quiet.”

Host: The piano glowed faintly under the lamp, its keys reflecting light like a row of tiny memories waiting to be touched.

Jeeny: “So what about you? If you could start again, would you still choose this — the late nights, the empty stages, the waiting?”

Jack: “I wouldn’t know how to choose anything else.”

Jeeny: “Even knowing what it costs?”

Jack: “Especially because of that. Creation’s never free. It’s a transaction between chaos and clarity.”

Jeeny: “And the return?”

Jack: “Moments like this. When the world feels quiet enough to listen back.”

Host: She watched him, eyes soft — the kind of gaze that understands the weight of someone who’s made peace with purpose, even if it never pays in comfort.

Jeeny: “You think you’ll ever stop chasing it?”

Jack: “Music?”

Jeeny: “The need to make it.”

Jack: “No. You don’t outgrow it. You just keep finding new ways to talk to it.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound like a lover.”

Jack: “It is. Demanding, moody, miraculous.”

Jeeny: “And worth it?”

Jack: “Always.”

Host: The rain softened, the studio light dimmed, and Jack began to play — slow, deliberate, each note like a fragment of a confession too fragile for words.

Jeeny closed her eyes, letting the sound move through her — not performance, but communion.

Host: In that moment, the world felt stripped to its essentials: light, sound, breath, and faith.

Jeeny: “You know, Grace Potter didn’t just talk about music — she lived it. Every note in her story is a step toward herself.”

Jack: “Yeah. Maybe that’s all any of us are doing. Learning to speak our truth in rhythm.”

Jeeny: “And to love the process more than the applause.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Host: The final chord faded, hanging in the air like smoke that refused to leave. For a long moment, neither of them spoke — the silence wasn’t empty; it was earned.

Then, quietly, Jeeny whispered:

Jeeny: “It’s strange — music starts as sound, but ends as soul.”

Jack: “That’s why I keep playing.”

Host: The rain stopped. The studio lights glowed softer, and the air felt washed clean — not with answers, but with harmony.

Because, as Grace Potter knew,
art isn’t something you begin — it’s something that’s always been singing inside you,
waiting for the day you finally decide to listen.