Mostly I stay at home from the morning until 5 P.M., and I only

Host: The afternoon light poured through the wide windows of a minimalist studio, the kind that smelled faintly of linen, ink, and old perfume. Rolls of fabric were stacked against the wall like silent sentinels of unfinished dreams. The city hummed faintly below — distant, impersonal — the kind of hum that made solitude feel like a chosen art.

A large clock ticked lazily on the wall: 4:43 P.M. Jack sat by the window, sketchbook open, pencil moving in clean, decisive strokes. Jeeny stood near the dress form, her fingers tracing the edge of a half-finished gown, its folds catching the light like the surface of still water.

The air between them was quiet, but not empty.

Jeeny: “Karl Lagerfeld once said, ‘Mostly I stay at home from the morning until 5 P.M., and I only go out for fittings and shoots because I work at home. I like to be alone.’”

Jack: “That sounds like freedom to me.”

Jeeny: “Or isolation.”

Host: The sound of the clock punctuated the silence — slow, patient, unbothered. Jack smiled faintly, not looking up.

Jack: “No, Jeeny. Isolation is what happens when the world forgets you. Freedom is what happens when you stop needing it to remember.”

Jeeny: “Easy to say when solitude is a luxury. Lagerfeld had fame, fortune, and a cat that probably had its own dressing room. His loneliness was upholstered.”

Jack: “You think solitude only belongs to the rich?”

Jeeny: “No. I think solitude feels different when you don’t have to fight for survival inside it.”

Host: The sunlight began to shift, gliding across the studio floor, catching dust in the air — small, golden galaxies suspended in quiet orbit. Jeeny walked to the window, pulling aside the curtain slightly to let in more light.

Jeeny: “You admire that kind of life, don’t you? The quiet, the control, the discipline.”

Jack: “I do. There’s dignity in being self-contained. Lagerfeld wasn’t hiding — he was curating. Some people don’t need the world’s noise to exist; they just need a room, some tools, and silence.”

Jeeny: “And what’s left when silence starts echoing?”

Jack: “Inspiration.”

Host: A faint breeze stirred the papers on the table. Jeeny picked up one of Jack’s sketches — a woman drawn in clean, stark lines, elegant yet distant, like someone caught between creation and disappearance.

Jeeny: “Do you ever get lonely, Jack?”

Jack: “Of course. But I’d rather be lonely by choice than surrounded by people who make me feel invisible.”

Jeeny: “You sound like Lagerfeld himself.”

Jack: “Maybe I understand him. People think solitude is emptiness, but for some of us, it’s the only way to breathe.”

Host: The studio had grown warmer, the light more golden, as though time itself were slowing down. Jeeny placed the sketch back on the table and turned, her eyes soft, her voice quieter now.

Jeeny: “But you know, Jack — solitude can also become a mask. You start convincing yourself that you love being alone, when really, you’re just afraid to be disappointed again.”

Jack: “Maybe. But what’s wrong with protecting your peace? The world takes enough — your time, your energy, your dignity. Choosing solitude is reclaiming ownership over your mind.”

Jeeny: “But solitude without connection turns into self-erasure. You build a castle so perfect no one can enter, and then you realize — you’ve locked yourself inside.”

Host: Jack’s hand paused over the page. His pencil tip broke with a faint snap, a small sound that somehow felt louder than it should have been. He looked up, the sunlight catching the sharp planes of his face, making him look both vulnerable and unreachable.

Jack: “You think it’s wrong to prefer your own company?”

Jeeny: “No. I think it’s dangerous to confuse solitude with sufficiency.”

Jack: “You make it sound like being alone is a wound.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes it is. But sometimes it’s a mirror — it shows you the places that still ache.”

Host: The room fell still again. The tick of the clock seemed louder now, counting the seconds between their breaths. Outside, the city lights were beginning to flicker to life — a thousand tiny windows glowing like stars in man-made constellations.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, when I was younger, I thought being alone was proof of strength. I’d see people clinging to relationships, friendships, crowds — and I’d think, They’re weak. They need validation. But now…”

Jeeny: “Now what?”

Jack: “Now I wonder if maybe I was the one who needed a reason to justify staying hidden.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Solitude can be a sanctuary — but it can also be a hiding place for the wounded parts of us that are afraid of light.”

Host: A train horn echoed faintly from across the river — a low, melancholic sound that vibrated through the glass. Jeeny walked closer to Jack, her voice almost a whisper.

Jeeny: “Karl Lagerfeld liked being alone because it gave him control. But maybe the truer kind of strength isn’t building walls — it’s opening doors, even when you’re scared of what’s outside.”

Jack: “And risk being misunderstood?”

Jeeny: “Better misunderstood than unseen.”

Host: Jack looked at her, eyes softening, as if the light from the window had finally found him. He closed his sketchbook, set it aside, and for the first time, smiled — small, reluctant, but real.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, maybe solitude isn’t meant to be permanent. Maybe it’s just a room you go into to learn who you are… so that when you leave, you don’t lose yourself again.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Like stepping into silence not to escape the world, but to return to it differently.”

Host: The clock struck five. The faintest sound of the city below rose, merging with the distant clatter of heels, the murmur of voices, the rhythm of life resuming. Jeeny smiled, reaching for her coat.

Jeeny: “Well, Mr. Lagerfeld, five o’clock. Time to rejoin the world.”

Jack: “Maybe for a little while.”

Host: He stood, watching as she walked toward the door. The light from the window fell across the table, illuminating the unfinished sketch, the fabric, the tools — fragments of creation waiting for touch, for noise, for life.

And as Jeeny opened the door, the cool air from the hallway swept in, carrying the scent of rain and streets and the faint hum of people existing together.

Jack looked out the window one last time before following, his voice barely audible, more thought than sound.

Jack: “Maybe I like being alone. But sometimes, it’s good to be reminded that the world still waits outside.”

Host: The door closed gently behind them. The candlelight flickered, then steadied. The studio stood quiet, but not empty — as if even the walls understood that solitude is not the absence of life, but the pause before returning to it.

And in that stillness, the echo of Lagerfeld’s words lingered — not as retreat, but as reverence — a testament to the strange, sacred balance between solitude and belonging, between the silence we create and the world we dare to step back into.