Music is an emotion, and I put it out there.

Host:
The club was dim — a narrow room of shadows, smoke, and broken amplifiers that still hummed faintly even after the last song had died. The air smelled of metal, sweat, and the aftertaste of sound. Onstage, cables coiled like sleeping serpents, the microphone dangling loosely, swinging with the soft rhythm of a memory that refused to fade.

A single red light glowed from above, falling across Jack as he sat on the edge of the stage, his hands resting on his knees. His grey eyes caught the dying light — sharp, distant, restless. Jeeny stood a few feet away, barefoot on the sticky wooden floor, her hair tangled, her face soft but intense. The echoes of a guitar still lingered, like a ghost refusing to leave the room.

On a torn setlist taped to the amp, the night’s final quote had been scribbled in ink:
“Music is an emotion, and I put it out there.” — Daron Malakian

Jack:
(quietly)
“Music is an emotion, and I put it out there.” Sounds simple enough — until you realize what it costs to do it.

Jeeny:
(tilting her head)
You think emotion has a price?

Jack:
Everything real does. Every note you play, every word you mean — you’re carving a piece of yourself and throwing it to strangers.

Jeeny:
That’s not a price, Jack. That’s a gift.

Jack:
(glaring up at her)
A gift? You call bleeding in front of people a gift?

Jeeny:
Yes. Because in a world full of noise, honesty is the only melody that still hurts.

Host:
The light flickered, stretching their shadows across the wall — long, thin, distorted. The distant city hum outside pressed against the windows, muffled, indifferent. Inside, it was only the two of them — and the quiet that follows truth.

Jack:
You make it sound noble. But the truth is, people don’t want raw. They want rhythm they can dance to, not the ache that created it.

Jeeny:
Then why do they come here, Jack? Why do they stand in the dark and close their eyes when you play? They want to feel something they forgot they had.

Jack:
(feigning indifference)
Maybe they just like the sound.

Jeeny:
No. They like the reminder — that emotion still exists. That someone out there is still brave enough to feel it out loud.

Host:
A string on the guitar twanged suddenly — the sound sharp and accidental, like the breaking of a thought. Jack’s hand twitched, but he didn’t move. Jeeny stepped closer, her bare foot brushing against a discarded pick.

Jack:
You think it’s bravery? To turn pain into performance?

Jeeny:
It is, if you mean it.

Jack:
Or maybe it’s addiction. Maybe we put emotion into music because it’s the only way we can survive it.

Jeeny:
And what’s wrong with that? Isn’t survival the truest form of art?

Jack:
(smirking)
You sound like a romantic.

Jeeny:
And you sound like a coward pretending to be cynical.

Host:
The words hit like a cymbal crash — sudden, clean, irreversible. Jack flinched slightly, but his eyes softened instead of hardening. He leaned back, staring up at the red light above.

Jack:
You think I’m afraid to feel?

Jeeny:
I think you’re afraid to be seen feeling. There’s a difference.

Jack:
So what — you just stand there, bare your soul, and hope the world claps?

Jeeny:
Not hope. Trust. That even if no one claps, the sound still mattered.

Host:
The silence after that was heavy — not uncomfortable, but full. The kind of silence that comes when two hearts are too close to words.

The club door creaked open somewhere in the back, letting in a breath of cool night air that smelled of rain and distant laughter.

Jack:
You know what scares me, Jeeny? Every time I write a song, I wonder if I’m feeling something real — or just performing what I used to feel.

Jeeny:
That’s the curse of every artist. The echo starts to sound like the original, and you forget which came first.

Jack:
Exactly. Emotion becomes habit. Sincerity becomes craft.

Jeeny:
Then maybe craft is just another word for learning how to bleed without dying.

Jack:
(quietly)
That’s dark.

Jeeny:
No, Jack. That’s music.

Host:
The neon sign outside buzzed faintly, its reflection flickering across the stage floor. Jeeny walked over to the guitar leaning against the amp. She picked it up gently, brushing her fingers across the strings — one soft chord, pure and trembling.

Jeeny:
Listen to that. That’s emotion.

Jack:
It’s just sound waves.

Jeeny:
No. It’s feeling made visible. You can’t see grief, or love, or fear — but you can hear them. That’s what makes music divine.

Jack:
Divine? Or dangerous?

Jeeny:
Both. Anything that tells the truth always is.

Host:
A faint rumble of thunder rolled through the night, distant but certain. The air grew thicker, the room quieter.

Jack:
You know, sometimes I think music isn’t emotion. It’s escape. It’s a way of not having to say what hurts.

Jeeny:
But isn’t that what makes it beautiful? The way it lets pain breathe instead of choke?

Jack:
You think pain deserves a stage?

Jeeny:
Of course. Pain built the stage.

Jack:
(smirking faintly)
You really believe that, don’t you?

Jeeny:
With everything I have. Because the world doesn’t listen to logic — it listens to feeling. And music is the only language it still understands.

Host:
The storm outside broke — rain tapping hard against the windows, the rhythm syncopated and wild. The sound filled the empty club like percussion.

Jack reached for the guitar and took it from her. His fingers brushed against hers, brief but electric. He played a few notes — hesitant at first, then stronger. The sound filled the room, soft but undeniable.

Jeeny closed her eyes, listening, letting it wash over her.

Jack:
You feel that?

Jeeny:
Yes.

Jack:
That’s everything I’ve ever been afraid to say.

Jeeny:
Then say it again. Louder.

Host:
The music rose — no melody, no pattern, just raw emotion turned into vibration. It was pain and release, confession and forgiveness.

When it ended, there was no applause — only the sound of rain and two hearts still beating in sync with something bigger than themselves.

Jack:
You’re right. Music is emotion. It’s the only way I know how to tell the truth.

Jeeny:
And the bravest thing you’ll ever do is keep putting it out there.

Host:
The red light flickered once, then steadied. The rain outside slowed.

Jack set the guitar down, his hands still trembling slightly, not from exhaustion but from the rawness of what had just escaped through the strings.

Jeeny smiled — soft, proud, infinite.

And in that quiet moment, beneath the hum of amplifiers and the lingering echo of thunder, truth itself seemed to exhale.

Host:
Perhaps that’s what Malakian meant — that music isn’t something you play. It’s something you survive. It’s not performance, but confession; not art, but release.

And when you put it out there — raw, imperfect, unfiltered — the world doesn’t just hear it. It feels it.

Because the greatest songs aren’t written to be remembered.
They’re written to remind us that we’re still alive.

Fade out.