My own approach has always been to push intense emotions down and

Host: The rain fell slow and deliberate, like someone thinking out loud. Through the café window, the city looked smeared — all neon and motion and memory. The clock on the far wall glowed 9:47 p.m. The crowd had thinned. Only the faint hum of the espresso machine and the occasional sound of cups clinking broke the silence.

At a corner table, under the tired glow of a hanging lamp, Jeeny sat across from Jack. The steam from her tea curled upward like a ghost with nowhere to go. Her hands were folded tight, fingers pale from the pressure. Jack leaned back, arms crossed, his grey eyes studying her quietly — not judging, just waiting for whatever storm she was holding back.

The radio played softly in the background — a woman’s voice, raw, aching, honest:
"My own approach has always been to push intense emotions down and attempt to deal with them later. When I was younger, I was terrified to express anger because it would often kick-start a horrible reaction in the men in my life." — Alanis Morissette

Jeeny looked up as if the voice had called her by name.

Jeeny: “That… that feels too close.”

Jack: “Morissette always does. She sings what most people bury.”

Jeeny: “Or what they’re punished for saying.”

Jack: “You think silence is punishment?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Silence is survival.”

Host: The rain outside hit harder now, like a drumroll no one applauded. Jack leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his eyes narrowing.

Jack: “You’ve been holding something back all night. What is it?”

Jeeny: “Nothing that would change anything.”

Jack: “Then say it anyway.”

Jeeny: “You wouldn’t understand.”

Jack: “Try me.”

Jeeny: “You ever spend years learning how not to explode? You bottle it up so tight it becomes muscle memory. You smile, you breathe, you nod — because showing anger means losing control. And losing control means danger.”

Jack: “Danger from who?”

Jeeny: “From the ones who told me anger wasn’t feminine. That fury made me unlovable. That passion was hysteria if it came from a woman.”

Host: Jack said nothing for a moment. The light caught the edge of his face, the rain outside reflecting in his eyes like broken glass.

Jack: “You think men don’t bottle things up?”

Jeeny: “I know you do. But you’re allowed to let it out — in bars, in boardrooms, on sidewalks. Society calls it dominance. When women do it, it’s damage.”

Jack: “So you just… pushed it down?”

Jeeny: “Always. Because it was safer to be quiet than to be right.”

Host: The words hung heavy between them — not loud, but sharp. The air in the café shifted, like even the walls were listening.

Jack: “You sound angry now.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “That’s not anger. That’s the ghost of it. The residue of all the times I swallowed it.”

Jack: “Then let it out.”

Jeeny: “And risk you walking out like the others?”

Jack: “Jeeny—”

Jeeny: “You asked. So here it is. I’ve spent my life apologizing for emotions that men celebrated in themselves. You get to call your rage strength. I get called dramatic. You get to be direct. I get told I’m too intense. I learned to compress myself — to fit into silence that wasn’t mine.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. Not defensively — but like a man realizing he’d been part of the quiet machinery she was describing.

Jack: “I didn’t know.”

Jeeny: “You didn’t have to. That’s how it works.”

Jack: “You really think it’s that different?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. I know it is. Because your anger builds walls. Mine breaks my skin.”

Host: The rain slowed to a drizzle. The café lights flickered, the air thick with everything unsaid. Jack leaned back, his voice low, honest.

Jack: “You know… I used to be terrified of anger too. My old man used it like a weapon. He’d shout until the house shook. After he left, I promised myself I’d never be like him. So I turned everything into work — long hours, cold logic. But that’s just another kind of silence.”

Jeeny: “So we’re both experts in suppression.”

Jack: “Different languages. Same disease.”

Host: She laughed softly — not because it was funny, but because it was true.

Jeeny: “Alanis was right. We think we can control emotions by burying them. But they always find a way out — through illness, through cynicism, through art.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s why people like her survive — they turn what burns them into songs.”

Jeeny: “And the rest of us just let it burn quietly.”

Host: A long silence settled. The clock ticked. The world outside the window looked like a movie paused mid-frame — rain frozen, lights suspended.

Jack: “What would happen if you stopped pushing it down?”

Jeeny: “You mean if I actually said what I feel?”

Jack: “Yeah.”

Jeeny: “I’d probably cry first. Then scream. Then feel guilty for both.”

Jack: “And then?”

Jeeny: “Then I’d finally breathe.”

Host: Jack looked at her — really looked. The mask she always wore in conversation, the calm veneer of poise, was cracked just enough to show the pulse beneath it.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what healing is — not silence, but the sound you make when you start breathing again.”

Jeeny: “Then why are we so afraid of the noise?”

Jack: “Because once you start, you can’t stop pretending anymore.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes met his. The distance between them dissolved. For the first time, she wasn’t holding anything back — not fury, not fear, not the weight of being misunderstood.

Jeeny: “Do you ever think emotions are like fault lines? You can ignore them, but they’re always there. One tremor — and everything you built on top starts to fall.”

Jack: “Maybe falling’s the only honest thing we ever do.”

Jeeny: “So what then? We rebuild?”

Jack: “No. We learn to stand in the ruins without shame.”

Host: The barista called last orders. The café began to close around them, chairs flipped, lights dimmed. But they didn’t move. The rain outside had stopped completely, leaving the streetlights reflecting gold across the wet pavement.

Jeeny looked out the window, her voice softer now — almost a whisper:

Jeeny: “You know what the hardest part is? Feeling something so strong it scares people away before you ever say it out loud.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s why Alanis made it into art — so her voice could scream where she couldn’t.”

Jeeny: “Maybe we all need a song like that.”

Jack: “You already have one. You just haven’t sung it yet.”

Host: Her eyes shimmered, not with tears, but with recognition — the kind of clarity that arrives quietly, like dawn.

Jeeny: “And what about you, Jack? What have you buried?”

Jack: “Everything I was too proud to admit I felt.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time you stopped being proud.”

Host: The lights dimmed to their final glow. The world outside was still, almost forgiving. Jack reached for his coat. Jeeny stood beside him. For the first time in a long time, neither of them looked like they were pretending to be okay.

Jack: “You know… maybe silence isn’t strength. Maybe it’s just fear wearing armor.”

Jeeny: “Then let’s take it off.”

Host: They stepped out into the night — the air cool, the city quiet — and walked without speaking, both of them feeling the weight of unspoken emotions begin to lift.

And somewhere, faintly, through an open window, Alanis’s voice carried again — that raw, familiar sound of a woman who learned to sing the things she was never allowed to say.

Host: The wind stirred Jeeny’s hair, and she smiled. For the first time, her silence wasn’t suppression.

It was peace.

Because when you finally stop pushing down what you feel —
you don’t break.
You become.