My therapist says I still haven't got in touch with my anger.

Host: The bar was nearly empty — a forgotten corner of the city that seemed to hum with its own kind of melancholy. Cigarette smoke drifted lazily toward the ceiling, catching the neon light from the old jukebox in fractured blues and reds. The rain outside pressed softly against the windows, painting everything in blurred motion.

Host: Jack sat in the far booth, shoulders hunched, nursing a glass of something amber. Across from him, Jeeny sipped her tea, the steam rising between them like a fragile veil. They’d been talking for hours, their voices alternating between laughter and silence, both trying to find the place where memory stops hurting.

Jeeny: (stirring her tea) “Drew Barrymore once said, ‘My therapist says I still haven't got in touch with my anger. Maybe one day I'm going to explode. But I'm still really happy. I know it looks like a strange and painful upbringing — all those experiences led me to the paths that I'm on now.’”

Jack: (smirks) “Ah, the classic therapy paradox — happiness wrapped in unresolved rage. My favorite cocktail.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “At least she’s self-aware. That’s more than most people.”

Jack: “Self-awareness doesn’t stop explosions, Jeeny. It just gives them subtitles.”

Host: The rain deepened, turning rhythmic, like the pulse of the city itself. Jeeny leaned back, her eyes catching the faint glint of light off the glass.

Jeeny: “You ever think about that? The anger we bury just to keep functioning?”

Jack: “Every day. But burying it’s the only way to keep the world quiet.”

Jeeny: “Until it isn’t.”

Jack: “You sound like my ex. She used to say my calm was suspicious.”

Jeeny: “Was she wrong?”

Jack: (after a pause) “No. I’ve got whole forests of unsaid things in me. But anger’s a dangerous gardener.”

Host: The bartender wiped the counter slowly, the sound of the cloth whispering against glass. The jukebox clicked, changing tracks — a slow, nostalgic song that made the room feel even older.

Jeeny: “You know what I like about Barrymore’s words? She’s not ashamed of her mess. She wears it like history, not guilt.”

Jack: “That’s the luxury of survival. Once you make it through, people call your pain character.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is character.”

Jack: “No. It’s damage with better lighting.”

Host: She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she traced the rim of her cup, watching the steam dissipate.

Jeeny: “You really believe that, don’t you? That pain ruins instead of reshapes?”

Jack: “Depends on the person. Some people turn pain into poetry. Others turn it into silence.”

Jeeny: “And which are you?”

Jack: “Depends on the day.”

Host: The rain outside slowed, becoming more delicate — a whisper rather than a drum. Jeeny looked at him closely, her voice soft but steady.

Jeeny: “You’ve got anger in you too, Jack. I can feel it every time you go quiet in the middle of a sentence.”

Jack: “So what if I do? At least I keep it contained.”

Jeeny: “Contained isn’t the same as understood.”

Jack: “Understanding it doesn’t make it smaller. It just gives it a name.”

Jeeny: “Names are how we stop being haunted.”

Host: He laughed, but there was no mockery in it — just fatigue.

Jack: “You really believe people can outgrow what broke them?”

Jeeny: “I don’t think we outgrow it. I think we learn how to dance with it without letting it lead.”

Host: The words settled between them like dust on an old record. The light from the bar flickered once, briefly revealing the faint scars on Jack’s knuckles — small, ancient stories of fights he no longer admitted to.

Jack: “You ever been angry enough to want to disappear?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But I stayed. Because disappearing means letting the people who hurt you write the ending.”

Jack: “You talk like you’ve already forgiven everyone.”

Jeeny: “Not everyone. But I’ve stopped carrying them with me.”

Host: Jack looked away, his reflection in the window a ghost beside hers. The city lights blurred into streaks of color, reflections of both chaos and beauty.

Jack: “You think Barrymore’s right — that pain makes us who we are?”

Jeeny: “Partly. Pain opens the door, but it’s choice that decides who walks through it.”

Jack: “And anger?”

Jeeny: “Anger’s the fire at the threshold. You can burn down the house, or you can light the way.”

Host: He turned toward her then, the weariness in his eyes softening into something raw — almost vulnerable.

Jack: “You make it sound noble.”

Jeeny: “It’s not noble. It’s necessary. If we don’t make peace with our anger, it becomes the language of everything we say.”

Jack: “And you? You’ve made peace?”

Jeeny: “No. I just stopped pretending it’s a stranger.”

Host: The jukebox crackled, fading into a new song — an old jazz number with a voice that sounded like heartbreak wrapped in velvet. The world outside the bar had gone still.

Jack: “You ever wish for a clean slate? To just start over without the weight of all this… history?”

Jeeny: “Every night. But then I remember — the cracks are where the light gets in.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “That’s Leonard Cohen.”

Jeeny: “Truth doesn’t need an original source.”

Host: She leaned forward, elbows on the table. The light caught her face just right — warmth against weariness.

Jeeny: “Maybe anger isn’t meant to be solved. Maybe it’s meant to remind us we’re still alive enough to care.”

Jack: “So it’s not the enemy?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s the teacher.”

Host: He looked at her for a long moment, then nodded — slow, reluctant, but sincere.

Jack: “You know, I think Barrymore’s got it right too. Maybe we don’t need perfect childhoods or clean wounds to end up in the right place.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Maybe happiness isn’t what happens after healing. Maybe it’s what we find while we heal.”

Host: The rain had stopped now, leaving only silence and the faint hum of the bar’s refrigerator. The city lights outside blinked faintly, like tired eyes refusing to close.

Jack: “You think one day we stop exploding?”

Jeeny: “No. I think one day we explode differently — with laughter instead of rage.”

Jack: (smiling) “That’s one hell of a therapy session.”

Jeeny: “Cheaper, too.”

Host: They laughed quietly. The sound, though small, filled the room with something warm and unguarded.

Host: And as the last note of the jazz song faded, Drew Barrymore’s words found their living echo — that healing isn’t clean, and happiness doesn’t wait for the pain to end.

Host: It’s the strange, holy coexistence of both: a fragile heart still learning its own anger, still forgiving its past, still finding joy in the cracks.

Host: Outside, the night finally stopped raining. Inside, two people sat across from each other — imperfect, unhealed, and entirely alive.