Of course, 'I Will Always Love You' is the biggest song so far in

Host: The recording studio was almost empty. Only the faint buzz of the old tape machine filled the silence, looping through the last seconds of a long night. The walls, lined with acoustic foam, seemed to hold their breath, catching the ghosts of every note ever sung within them. The air smelled of coffee, vinyl, and nostalgia — the trinity of late-night creation.
Outside, the city slept, but inside, two souls lingered — one clinging to the echo of a melody, the other to the echo of a memory.

Jack sat at the mixing console, cigarette unlit between his fingers, his grey eyes fixed on the soundboard as if it were a confession booth. Across from him, Jeeny perched on a high stool, guitar in hand, the strings still humming softly from her last chord.

The light above them was dim, the kind of golden glow that makes even failure look beautiful.

Jeeny: quietly “You ever wonder what makes a song last, Jack? Why some just fade after a season, and others… just never let go?”

Jack: “It’s math, Jeeny. Catchy chords, good hook, perfect timing. Get the formula right, and the world sings along.”

Jeeny: “You think ‘I Will Always Love You’ was math?”

Host: The question hung like a soft note in the room — fragile, trembling, real. Jack’s brow furrowed, a ghost of defensiveness passing through his features.

Jack: “No, I think it was luck. Dolly wrote a song people needed, and the universe picked it up at the right time. That’s not magic, it’s market.”

Jeeny: “You’re wrong.” She smiled faintly, plucking a quiet string. “That song wasn’t luck. It was love — real, raw, inconvenient love. You can’t fake that. The song didn’t just sell — it remembered.”

Host: A soft hum filled the silence — not from the speakers, but from the neon sign flickering outside the glass. “Recording,” it read, though the red glow felt more like a heartbeat than a warning.

Jack: “You think every artist bleeds sincerity? Come on, Jeeny. Most of us are just repackaging feelings, giving people something to cry to in the car.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s true for most. But Dolly… she wrote that song as a goodbye. To someone she loved, but had to leave. That’s what made it immortal. It was born from something the rest of us are too afraid to admit — that love doesn’t always mean staying.”

Jack: “So what, heartbreak equals authenticity?”

Jeeny: “Not heartbreak — honesty.”

Host: The tape reel stopped spinning with a soft click, the end of the track marking the beginning of silence. Jack leaned back, exhaling, the chair creaking under the weight of memory.

Jack: “You know, I met Dolly once.”

Jeeny: eyes widening “You’re lying.”

Jack: “Nope. Nashville, 2008. She was doing a fundraiser gig. I was just a sound tech then. She walked in wearing that ridiculous rhinestone jacket — looked like she was built out of light. Everyone stopped talking when she smiled. It wasn’t even fame — it was... presence.”

Jeeny: “What did she say?”

Jack: “She looked at the mic stand, adjusted it herself, and said, ‘Honey, if I’m gonna tell the truth, I better be standing straight.’”

Host: Jeeny’s lips parted slightly, as if she’d just heard the secret she’d been chasing all night. Her eyes softened, glowing with that delicate blend of wonder and ache.

Jeeny: “That’s it, Jack. That’s the whole thing. She wasn’t performing — she was confessing.”

Jack: “And the confession made her rich.”

Jeeny: “No. The confession made her real. The money just came along for the ride.”

Host: The rain began outside, light but steady, its rhythm syncing with the faint beat still looping through the console. Jeeny began to strum again, softly, aimlessly — a tune still searching for its name.

Jeeny: “You ever write something from your gut, Jack? Something that didn’t care who listened?”

Jack: “Once.” He stared at the console. “Didn’t end well.”

Jeeny: “What happened?”

Jack: “She heard it.”

Host: The air tightened. Even the rain seemed to hesitate, as if the city itself had stopped breathing for him.

Jeeny: gently “Then she mattered.”

Jack: “She was married.”

Jeeny: “So was Dolly’s Porter Wagoner, and she still wrote the song. Sometimes love has to break quietly to stay true.”

Host: A faint tremor passed through Jack’s hand. He stubbed out the unlit cigarette and picked up a pen instead, tapping it against the desk like a metronome for all the words he’d never said.

Jack: “You think love’s supposed to hurt?”

Jeeny: “No. I think love’s supposed to reveal.”

Jack: “Reveal what?”

Jeeny: “Who we are when it’s gone.”

Host: Her voice fell like rain against his certainty — soft, persistent, impossible to ignore. Jack’s eyes lifted, meeting hers across the dim room. The tension between them was like an unresolved chord — beautiful, dangerous, alive.

Jack: “You ever wonder why she didn’t call it ‘I’ll Love You Forever’? Why she chose ‘I Will Always Love You’?”

Jeeny: thinking “Because ‘always’ is a promise, not a condition. She didn’t say she’d be there — she said she’d feel it, no matter what changed. That’s why it hurts. Because it’s true.”

Host: The light bulb above them flickered, painting their faces in waves of warmth and shadow — love and distance in equal measure. Jeeny’s fingers paused on the strings.

Jeeny: “Dolly said that song came from a deep place in her heart. Maybe that’s what every artist needs — to stop chasing perfection and start chasing honesty.”

Jack: “Honesty doesn’t sell records.”

Jeeny: “No, but it saves souls.”

Host: The room grew quiet again. Jack’s hand moved toward the fader, pushing it up just slightly. A soft melody filled the air — Jeeny’s voice, recorded hours earlier, trembling, imperfect, human.

Jack: “You think this one will last?”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Only if it comes from the right place.”

Jack: “And where’s that?”

Jeeny: “The place that still hurts.”

Host: Jack nodded slowly, like a man standing at the edge of something he could finally see but not yet name. The rain softened to a whisper. The city exhaled. Somewhere, a neon sign went dark, leaving only the sound of her voice looping — tender, unfinished, eternal.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, love doesn’t end when the song fades.”

Jack: “No,” he said quietly, “but sometimes the echo’s the part that saves us.”

Host: The camera would linger here — on the two of them, framed in the dim halo of studio light, the past still singing in the room. Her guitar lay across her lap; his hands hovered over the board. Between them, the air shimmered — thick with melody, memory, and mercy.
And as the tape turned once more, the final line whispered through the speakers like a benediction from somewhere deeper than words:

"I will always love you."

Host: The sound faded into silence — not an ending, but a heartbeat, eternal and true.