My friends and family are my support system. They tell me what I

Title: Above the Water

Host: The rain had just stopped. The city was drenched in silver, its streets shimmering under the pale light of the moon. In a quiet park by the river, the world felt momentarily still — as if holding its breath between storm and peace.

A bench stood near the water’s edge, slick with the last drops of the evening. Jack sat there, his coat damp, his eyes fixed on the slow, swirling current below. He looked like a man who had spent too long thinking and not enough time resting.

Jeeny approached, her footsteps soft against the wet grass, a paper cup of coffee in each hand. She didn’t speak right away. Instead, she placed one beside him, then sat down — close, but not too close.

The river murmured its quiet song. Somewhere in the distance, the faint hum of traffic mixed with the call of a lone train, fading into the night.

Jeeny: “Kelly Clarkson once said — ‘My friends and family are my support system. They tell me what I need to hear, not what I want to hear and they are there for me in the good and bad times. Without them I have no idea where I would be and I know that their love for me is what's keeping my head above the water.’”

Jack: (after a long pause) “Above the water, huh? Some days I feel like I’m already underneath.”

Host: His voice was low, the kind of tone that carries both resignation and the faintest trace of defiance. The riverlight reflected in his eyes — two small, restless stars fighting not to drown.

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time you stopped swimming alone.”

Jack: “It’s not that simple.”

Jeeny: “It never is. But that doesn’t make it less true.”

Host: The wind brushed through the trees, carrying the soft smell of wet leaves and earth. Jeeny leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, the coffee steaming between her palms.

Jeeny: “You know, people think strength means not needing anyone. But sometimes the strongest thing you can do is let someone hold you up.”

Jack: “I’ve tried. But every time I lean on someone, I feel guilty. Like I’m dragging them down with me.”

Jeeny: “That’s the voice of someone who’s forgotten what love actually does. Love doesn’t sink, Jack. It learns how to float — for both of you.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You make it sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “It’s not poetry. It’s survival.”

Host: A car passed on the distant road, its headlights painting brief gold lines across their faces before fading into darkness. The river, steady and patient, kept moving — neither hurried nor still, just certain.

Jack: “I used to have that — a circle of people I could call at 2 a.m. without thinking twice. But life happens. People drift. You tell yourself you don’t need them anymore, and before you know it, the silence feels permanent.”

Jeeny: “And yet you showed up here tonight — which means part of you still remembers.”

Jack: “Remembers what?”

Jeeny: “What it’s like not to be alone.”

Host: His jaw tightened, but his eyes softened, the tension of an inner wall cracking — not from force, but from fatigue.

Jeeny: “Clarkson’s right, you know. The people who keep us afloat aren’t the ones who tell us we’re perfect. They’re the ones who say, ‘You’re sinking — grab my hand.’”

Jack: “And what if you can’t? What if you’re too heavy?”

Jeeny: “Then they pull harder.”

Jack: “That’s not fair to them.”

Jeeny: “It’s not about fairness. It’s about love. Real love is heavy — but shared, it becomes weightless.”

Host: The moonlight brightened, glinting off the water. The reflection rippled like breath — fragile, alive, uncertain.

Jack: “You talk like you’ve never fallen apart.”

Jeeny: “Oh, I’ve fallen apart plenty. I’ve just had people who remembered where the pieces went.”

Jack: (chuckling softly) “That’s a good line.”

Jeeny: “It’s the truth. My sister — she’s the one who keeps me grounded. When I get lost, she doesn’t try to fix me. She just listens, even to the ugly parts. She reminds me who I am when I forget.”

Jack: “Sounds like you’re lucky.”

Jeeny: “Luck has nothing to do with it. It’s about trust. Letting people see you unarmored.”

Host: Her words landed like small pebbles in the river, each one sending ripples through the silence between them.

Jack: “I used to think love was supposed to make everything easy. Turns out, it just makes things harder — because it makes you care again.”

Jeeny: “Caring hurts, yeah. But not caring — that’s a slow kind of death.”

Jack: “And you think love’s the cure?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s the oxygen. You can still drown without it, but at least you can breathe.”

Host: A small gust of wind lifted a few leaves from the ground, sending them spiraling into the air. They hovered briefly, then fell into the water, where they drifted quietly, together.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? When I was younger, I thought independence was the goal. Being self-sufficient, untouchable. But the older I get, the more I realize I’ve mistaken loneliness for strength.”

Jeeny: “That’s because we grew up being told to ‘stand on our own two feet.’ But no one told us the ground would shift.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “So what, we hold on to each other instead?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Balance doesn’t mean standing still. It means leaning the right way.”

Host: A train horn echoed faintly in the distance, long and low, like the sound of time passing through steel.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder where you’d be without the people who stuck around?”

Jack: (after a long pause) “Dead, probably. Or close enough that it wouldn’t matter.”

Jeeny: “Then you already know what Kelly meant — that their love keeps you above the water. Not because it saves you, but because it reminds you you’re worth saving.”

Jack: “I don’t always feel that.”

Jeeny: “That’s okay. You don’t have to believe it every day. That’s why they believe it for you.”

Host: The river caught a gust of wind, its surface trembling with silver ripples. Jack’s eyes followed them, his reflection breaking apart and reforming — imperfect, but whole enough to start again.

Jack: “You think everyone deserves that kind of love?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Especially the ones who think they don’t.”

Jack: “You sound sure.”

Jeeny: “Because I’ve been both — the one drowning and the one reaching in.”

Host: Her voice softened, filled with memory. Jack’s breathing slowed; the storm in him subsided, replaced by a rare, fragile calm.

Jack: “You know, maybe I owe some people a call.”

Jeeny: “You don’t owe them anything. Just let them know you’re still here.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “Still above the water.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: A faint smile crossed his face — hesitant, honest, like the first flicker of dawn after a long night. The river glowed in response, the light shifting from silver to gold as the first trace of morning seeped into the sky.

Jeeny stood, brushing off her coat.

Jeeny: “You coming?”

Jack: (rising) “Yeah. I think I will.”

Host: They began walking along the path, the sound of their footsteps soft against the wet ground. The world around them seemed lighter now — not because the storm had passed, but because they had.

Host: And as they disappeared into the thinning night, Kelly Clarkson’s words lingered like a heartbeat beneath the fading rain —

That love is not a rescue.
It’s a raft.
And friendship, family, faith —
they are the quiet hands that keep you from sinking,
the unseen arms that lift you each time the current pulls too hard.

The river kept flowing.
The sky kept brightening.

And two souls, once adrift, walked on —
finally remembering
that no one survives the deep alone.