My wife totally backs the way I am on stage; that's one of the

Host: The backstage air was thick with smoke, neon, and the lingering buzz of an audience that refused to leave. Through the thin walls of the old theatre, the echo of a guitar’s last note still trembled, like a ghost refusing to die.

Jack sat on a worn leather couch, his hands trembling slightly, the residue of adrenaline still clawing through his veins. His eyes, grey and sharp, reflected the glow of a dressing-room bulb, haloed by dust. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against the doorframe, her arms crossed, her expression both tired and tender, as if she were watching a storm she’d seen a thousand times before but still couldn’t look away from.

A single poster on the wall read, “Gerard Way — Live Tonight”, and beneath it, someone had scribbled in marker: “Love is the truest rebellion.”

Host: The crowd outside began to fade, replaced by the low hum of equipment being packed, the clatter of metal cases, the murmur of crew voices. Somewhere down the corridor, someone laughed, too loudly, and it echoed like a reminder that the world was still moving.

Jack: “He said it best, didn’t he?” he muttered. “Gerard Way — ‘My wife totally backs the way I am on stage.’ Imagine that. Someone who lets you become a monster in the spotlight and still calls you home after.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound like a tragedy,” she said, softly. “Maybe it’s not a monster she sees — maybe it’s just you, in all your extremes. Maybe that’s what love really is: knowing every version of a person and still staying.”

Host: Jack gave a short, almost bitter laugh, running his hands through his hair, the sweat still damp. The mirror before him reflected a man half-formed — the performer fading, the person returning.

Jack: “You talk about love like it’s infinite. But there are limits, Jeeny. Even Gerard admitted that — ‘certain things I’d never do.’ That’s the trick of it, isn’t it? The illusion of freedom inside boundaries.”

Jeeny: “It’s not a trick, Jack,” she said. “It’s the definition of respect. You think love is a cage because it asks for something back. But it’s really the opposite — it gives you the stage and trusts you not to burn it down.”

Host: The light bulb above them flickered, humming faintly. Outside, a car engine roared to life, the sound bouncing off the brick walls. The night smelled like sweat, rain, and cheap perfume — the aftertaste of a concert that had burned too bright.

Jack: “Respect,” he repeated, almost to himself. “You can’t measure respect in percentages, Jeeny. 120 per cent — that’s what he said. You can’t give that. You can’t quantify devotion like a math equation.”

Jeeny: “But you can feel it,” she whispered. “You can stand under a thousand lights, and still remember one person’s shadow. That’s 120 per cent, Jack. It’s not about numbers — it’s about where your limits stop being rules and start being choices.”

Host: Jack turned toward her, his eyes catching the dim reflection of the dressing-room light. There was tension in his shoulders, that restless energy of a man who’d lived too long between stages — one public, one private.

Jack: “I’ve seen performers lose themselves out there. They start chasing the crowd, the cheers, the high. They become the act. Their marriages, their families, everything else — just collateral damage. Tell me where the respect is in that.”

Jeeny: “And yet some keep both,” she said. “They find a way to burn and still not consume themselves. Gerard did. Because his wife didn’t love the stage, she loved the soul behind it. That’s why he could go wild — he was never lost, not really.”

Host: The room fell quiet. A distant thunder rolled outside, muffled by the walls, but close enough to make the window vibrate. Jack looked down at his hands — calloused, ink-stained, the hands of someone who’d tried to hold too much.

Jack: “Maybe love like that is rare. Maybe it’s myth. Everyone says they understand you until you show them the version of yourself that’s real. Then they flinch.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why it’s worth something — because it’s rare. Because it’s chosen, every day, despite the flinch.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled slightly, but not from fear — from conviction. She stepped closer, her reflection joining his in the mirror, two faces illuminated by a single dying light.

Jeeny: “You think being on stage means pretending. But sometimes it’s the only place you tell the truth. You scream what you can’t say in daylight. And if someone loves you enough to let you do that — to stand in the dark and still wait for you to come home — that’s not control, Jack. That’s freedom.”

Jack: “Freedom?” He scoffed, but there was no bite left in it. “Feels more like exposure. Like you’re handing them your mask and hoping they won’t destroy what’s underneath.”

Jeeny: “And when they don’t — when they hold it gently — that’s when you know.”

Host: The thunder cracked again, louder this time, shaking the glass slightly. The electric hum of the amplifier in the corner gave one last dying sigh before the power flickered out, leaving only the dim blue light from the hallway seeping under the door.

For a long moment, they both said nothing. The rain began to fall outside, tapping rhythmically against the windowpane.

Jack: “You think you could love someone like that?”

Jeeny: “I think that’s the only kind of love worth having.”

Jack: “Even if it hurts?”

Jeeny: “Especially if it hurts.”

Host: Her words hung in the air like smoke, curling between them. Jack turned back toward the mirror, his reflection fractured by the small crack running through the glass — a perfect metaphor for the kind of love they were talking about: imperfect, but still whole.

Jack: “Maybe that’s why he said he’d never cross certain lines. Not because he feared losing her, but because he respected the space she gave him to exist. Because she trusted the fire without trying to put it out.”

Jeeny: “Exactly,” she said softly. “Love that respects doesn’t cage — it mirrors. It lets you see yourself clearer. That’s why he smiled when he said it. Because it wasn’t permission. It was partnership.”

Host: The rain grew heavier now, drowning out the sounds of the city. Jack stood, reaching for his jacket, his movements slower, more deliberate. He looked at Jeeny for a long time, something almost like gratitude flickering in his eyes.

Jack: “You always make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said, smiling faintly. “Just worth it.”

Host: Jack walked toward the door. Before leaving, he turned back one last time, his silhouette outlined against the blue light, the echo of the stage still clinging to him.

Jack: “Maybe love’s the only encore that matters.”

Jeeny: “Then play it well.”

Host: And with that, the door opened, the rain-soaked night spilling in, silver and alive. Jack stepped out into it, disappearing into the darkness beyond the corridor.

Jeeny stayed behind, her eyes fixed on the flickering bulb that refused to die.

Host: The camera lingered there, on that single trembling light, its glow casting two fading reflections — one gone, one waiting. And as the rain drummed on, the message became clear:

That respect is not about what you hold back from the world —
but what you hold sacred for the one who never asks you to.