Maybe there is no actual place called hell. Maybe hell is just

Host: The afternoon light slanted through the blinds, striping the small living room with alternating bands of gold and shadow. A fan turned slowly overhead, creaking with every rotation. On the table, two half-eaten sandwiches rested on paper plates — one of them soggy, one of them untouched. From the old television, a black-and-white film murmured, its sound nearly drowned by the steady, nasal breathing of an unseen older man sleeping in a chair nearby.

Jack sat on the couch, his shoulders tense, his grey eyes focused on nothing. Jeeny perched on the armrest, her hands folded, her expression hovering between amusement and pity.

Host: The air was thick with that peculiar silence found only in houses that have seen too much life — a mixture of peace, dust, and something like eternal patience.

Jack: “Jim Carrey once said, ‘Maybe hell is just having to listen to our grandparents breathe through their noses when they’re eating sandwiches.’”

Jeeny: laughing softly “You know, that might be one of the most profound jokes ever told.”

Jack: “Profound? It’s a joke about sandwiches, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s about what it means to be trapped — not in fire, but in familiarity. To be haunted not by demons, but by the endless ordinary.”

Host: Jack’s lip twitched, half a smirk, half a grimace. The light from the window caught the faint lines near his eyes — not from age, but from fatigue that didn’t quite heal.

Jack: “You make it sound poetic. But come on, Jeeny — hell is supposed to mean something real. Flames, torture, guilt, punishment. You can’t reduce it to family dinners and bad breathing.”

Jeeny: “But that’s the point, isn’t it? The idea that hell doesn’t have to be mythical. That it’s the small, endless things that erode us — the sound, the repetition, the moments we can’t escape because they’re too human.”

Jack: “So you’re saying hell is domestic life?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes, yes. Sometimes hell is banal. Think about it — Sartre said, ‘Hell is other people.’ He didn’t mean monsters or fire. He meant the claustrophobia of being known, of being seen too well. Even love can be suffocating when it traps you.”

Host: A faint snore rose from the old man in the chair, a deep, slow rumble followed by a nasal wheeze. The sound seemed to hang in the room, strangely rhythmic, almost ritualistic.

Jack: “That’s easy to say when you romanticize suffering. But sometimes, Jeeny, people just annoy you. That doesn’t make it hell. It makes it Tuesday.”

Jeeny: “Oh, Jack. You’re missing the undertone. Humor like Carrey’s — it’s born out of recognition. We laugh because we see ourselves. We joke about our grandparents’ breathing, but what we’re really saying is, ‘God, I love them, but they remind me of mortality, of repetition, of what I’ll become.’”

Host: Jeeny looked away, her eyes softening. In the reflection of the TV screen, the two of them were framed together — two generations, two souls — divided only by their ways of defining pain.

Jack: “Mortality again. You always bring it back to death.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s always there. Even in the smallest moments. Especially in them. The way your grandmother chews, the sound your grandfather makes when he breathes through his nose — it’s not hell because it’s awful. It’s hell because it reminds you that everything is ending, slowly, right in front of you.”

Jack: “So you think boredom is a kind of death?”

Jeeny: “It’s worse. Boredom is death pretending to be peace.”

Host: The fan groaned, spinning slower, as if the room itself were listening. Outside, a dog barked, then fell silent. Somewhere down the street, a lawn mower roared to life — the eternal hum of suburban existence.

Jack: “You always turn the joke into a sermon. Maybe Carrey just meant that families are irritating, Jeeny. Maybe hell is just the grinding sound of another human being existing too close to you.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But even that irritation is a mirror. You only hate it because it’s too familiar. Because you see in them your own imperfection, your own aging, your own noise. Maybe that’s what hell really is — being unable to escape yourself, even through the people you love.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his bottle-green eyes narrowing. The room seemed to shrink, the air growing thicker.

Jack: “So hell isn’t punishment, it’s recognition?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s realizing you’ve built your own prison, brick by brick, out of habits and memories. Hell is the moment you notice the rhythm of someone’s breathing — and you can’t unhear it.”

Jack: “That’s bleak, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “It’s honest.”

Host: The light shifted, and the sun slid lower, turning the room amber. Dust floated lazily in the air, catching the light like tiny planets in slow orbit.

Jack: “You know what I think? Hell isn’t the sound. It’s the silence that follows when it stops.”

Jeeny: “...” She looked at him, the smile fading.

Jack: “When they’re gone, when there’s no breathing left, no sound of sandwiches, no noise to hate — that’s when you realize the hell you mocked was heaven in disguise.”

Host: For a long time, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the steady rhythm of the old man’s breathing and the faint crackle from the TV. Jeeny’s eyes glimmered, reflecting something like sadness, something like understanding.

Jeeny: “You always find the darkness hiding in the light, don’t you?”

Jack: “No. I just know they’re never separate. Heaven always sounds like hell until it’s gone.”

Host: The old man stirred, sniffed, and shifted, his sandwich plate sliding slightly on the table. The sound — wet, ungraceful, human — filled the room again.

Jeeny laughed, quietly this time, the kind of laugh that’s half tear, half grace.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the lesson. That love isn’t always soft or sacred. Sometimes it’s just… loud.”

Jack: “And nasal.”

Jeeny: grinning “Exactly.”

Host: The fan creaked again, the sunlight now dim and golden, stretching long shadows across the floor. The old man snored, and in that sound there was no hell, no damnation, just the comfort of something living — imperfect, absurd, and still here.

Jeeny picked up her sandwich, took a small bite, and smiled. Jack watched, then did the same.

Host: And in that ordinary moment, surrounded by the sound of breathing, crumbs, and sunlight, they both understood: maybe hell was never a place — maybe it was just a reminder of how close heaven always was, hidden inside the unbearable noise of the ones we love.

Host: The scene faded, leaving only the faint rustle of the fan, the warm smell of bread, and the soft, unending music of life continuing, one slow, nasal breath at a time.