My other family is Fleetwood Mac. I don't need the money, but

Host: The soundstage was empty now — just rows of black chairs, a few cables coiled like sleeping snakes, and a faint echo of laughter still hanging in the air. The spotlights were off, leaving only the dim glow of a single lamp near the corner of the stage. It cast a circle of amber light over two forgotten mugs, a notebook, and a vintage record spinning slowly, whispering Fleetwood Mac through its soft crackle.

Jack sat on the edge of the stage, legs dangling, jacket tossed beside him. His grey eyes were unfocused — half lost in the melody, half caught in thought. Jeeny, barefoot, paced slowly across the dusty floor, the faint hum of the record trailing her every movement.

The quote was written in chalk across the backstage wall, just above an old mirror surrounded by dead bulbs:
“My other family is Fleetwood Mac. I don't need the money, but there's an emotional need for me to go on the road again. There's a love there; we're a band of brothers.” — Stevie Nicks

Host: The words glowed faintly in the light, fragile and eternal — like everything she’d ever sung.

Jack: (softly) “She talks about it like it’s blood. Like the stage isn’t a career — it’s a heartbeat.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “For her, it is. That’s what happens when creation becomes kinship. When the people you make music with know the shape of your soul better than anyone else.”

Jack: “Sounds like both heaven and hell.”

Jeeny: (sitting beside him) “It usually is. Families built from art rarely stay peaceful — but they last in a way nothing else does.”

Host: The record spun — a low, aching note, the kind that seemed to stretch memory into melody. Jack’s hands rested on the stage floor, his fingers brushing against the scuffed wood that once held ten thousand dreams.

Jack: “You know, it’s strange. Money, fame, success — they all fade. But that connection, that kind of creative love — it lingers like smoke. It’s the kind of thing you can’t bury, even when you want to.”

Jeeny: “That’s because it’s not built on profit. It’s built on pain, trust, and time — the three hardest things to share.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “You make it sound like love is rehearsal.”

Jeeny: “It is. You keep repeating it, hoping one day the performance feels true.”

Host: Silence settled between them for a moment — not awkward, but sacred. The song on the turntable changed — Landslide. The sound filled the air like breath made visible.

Jeeny: (softly) “You ever notice how she always sings about motion? ‘Climbs,’ ‘turns,’ ‘sliding down.’ Like she’s never standing still, even in heartbreak.”

Jack: “Because some people aren’t meant to stop moving. They don’t chase applause — they chase belonging.”

Jeeny: “That’s what she meant. It’s not the road — it’s the reunion. The pull back to the people who knew you before the world did.”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly, not from weakness, but recognition. Jack turned to her, noticing that for once, she wasn’t guarding her tone.

Jack: “You’ve felt that, haven’t you?”

Jeeny: “Haven’t you? That ache to return — not to a place, but to a rhythm you used to share with someone?”

Jack: (after a long pause) “Yeah. Once. It was a band, actually. Not famous. Just… ours. We used to play until morning, break things, fix them, break each other a little too. But in between all the chaos, it felt like freedom.”

Jeeny: (nodding) “That’s what family through music is. Chaos you wouldn’t trade for quiet.”

Jack: (laughing softly) “Funny. I thought we’d end up rich. Instead, we just ended up… attached.”

Jeeny: “You did get rich. Just not in the kind of currency the world keeps count of.”

Host: The record skipped once, caught itself, then continued — Stevie’s voice hovering over the air like smoke rising from memory. The smell of dust, old wood, and vinyl filled the room — that scent of nostalgia you could almost drink.

Jack: (quietly) “You know, she could’ve stopped years ago. She doesn’t need to tour. Doesn’t need the spotlight. But she keeps going — not for the applause, but because the silence after the show probably feels too lonely.”

Jeeny: “When you’ve shared a stage that long, silence feels like grief.”

Jack: (murmuring) “A band of brothers.”

Jeeny: “Yeah. Bound not by blood, but by sound.”

Host: The rain outside began again, a soft percussion that joined the music like a ghost drummer keeping time.

Jeeny: “You ever think that maybe we all need a version of that? A ‘band’ — people who hold the rhythm when we lose ours?”

Jack: “I think that’s the only kind of wealth that matters. The people who tune into your frequency without needing explanation.”

Jeeny: “The ones who stay even when the music changes.”

Host: Her eyes glistened in the dim light, and Jack watched her quietly — the way her words always seemed to carry the ache of things she’d lost but learned from.

Jack: “So maybe that’s what Stevie meant — not about touring or fame. About returning to the people who remember you when you weren’t performing.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because that’s the truest kind of love — the one that survives every reinvention.”

Host: The music faded, replaced by the crackle of the spinning record. Jeeny stood, walked to the turntable, and gently lifted the needle. The silence that followed wasn’t empty — it was warm, alive, breathing.

Jack: “You know, for someone who sings about heartbreak, she sure understands joy better than most.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Because she knows they’re twins. You can’t have one without the other.”

Jack: “And family — chosen or found — is the bridge between them.”

Jeeny: “Always.”

Host: The camera panned back, the dim light catching the chalk quote on the wall — its words glowing softly, like a secret still being sung:

My other family is Fleetwood Mac.
I don't need the money, but there's an emotional need for me to go on the road again.
There's a love there; we're a band of brothers.

Host: Because art isn’t a career — it’s communion.

And the truest kind of wealth
is found not in applause,
but in the echoes of those who play beside you,
in the shared silences between songs,
and in the faces that remind you —
you never had to sing alone.