On Christmas, when I was 13, my mom got me my first laptop. I

Host: The room was dark except for the blue glow of an old laptop screen — the kind of light that feels like electricity and possibility. A soft beat looped in the background, raw and imperfect, the pulse of a young dream being born. Outside, snow fell silently against the window, muting the city’s noise into a kind of private hush.

It was the week after Christmas, and the world was still dressed in twinkling lights and exhaustion.

Jack sat at a cluttered desk, eyes fixed on the monitor, headphones around his neck. The screen flickered with the FruityLoops interface — colorful, chaotic, infinite. Jeeny sat on the edge of the bed, cross-legged, wrapped in a blanket, watching him with that half-smile she reserved for moments that were small but somehow sacred.

On the wall behind them, scribbled on a sticky note, was a quote Jack had printed from an interview:

“On Christmas, when I was 13, my mom got me my first laptop. I downloaded it, FruityLoops, ’cause I had heard about it, and started messing around.”
— Metro Boomin

Jeeny read it aloud, softly, over the beat looping from the speakers.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about that? It’s not about fame, or talent, or destiny. It’s about curiosity.”

Jack: “It’s about the spark. The moment the world opens a door, and a kid’s brave enough to walk through.”

Jeeny: [grinning] “A 13-year-old kid, a laptop, and FruityLoops. That’s the holy trinity of modern creation.”

Jack: “And a mother who believed enough to buy the laptop.”

Host: The beat repeated — clumsy, uneven, but alive. Jack tapped the table with his fingers, trying to find the rhythm, while Jeeny swayed slightly, humming under her breath.

Jeeny: “You know, that’s the thing about beginnings. They never look like beginnings. They look like boredom, or accident, or—”

Jack: “Messing around.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The lamp flickered. The snow outside thickened. The world beyond the glass looked like static, a blank page waiting to be filled.

Jeeny: “Do you remember your first spark? The first time you created something just because you had to?”

Jack: [thinking] “Yeah. My dad gave me an old camera when I was twelve. It barely worked. I spent weeks filming shadows on the walls, pretending I was making movies. I didn’t realize until years later that I was trying to film my own loneliness.”

Jeeny: “You found meaning through malfunction.”

Jack: “You could say that. What about you?”

Jeeny: “Writing. I started with diary entries that sounded like confessions. Then they turned into poems. Then the poems started arguing with me.”

Jack: “And now you argue professionally.”

Jeeny: [smiling] “It’s a gift.”

Host: The beat looped again — sharper now, edited, focused. It filled the small room like oxygen. Jack leaned closer to the screen, his fingers moving faster.

Jeeny watched, fascinated.

Jeeny: “See, that’s what Metro meant — not FruityLoops, not laptops, but this. The obsession. The trance. The way creation swallows you whole.”

Jack: “And spits you out different.”

Host: The heater clicked on, humming softly beneath their conversation. The room felt like time had paused inside it — a cocoon of sound and light and becoming.

Jeeny: “You think anyone realizes, in that moment, that they’re building their future?”

Jack: “No. You only recognize it in hindsight. In the moment, it just feels like play.”

Jeeny: “But play is holy.”

Jack: “Holy?”

Jeeny: “Yes. It’s the closest thing we have to innocence. To curiosity before ambition ruins it.”

Jack: “You’re saying the best creators never stop playing.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The best art doesn’t come from mastery. It comes from mischief.”

Host: Jack hit play. The speakers filled with a rhythm — uneven but bold, fragile but promising. Something in it sounded like courage.

Jeeny closed her eyes, listening.

Jeeny: “You can hear it, can’t you? That moment where sound becomes identity.”

Jack: “And the moment where curiosity becomes commitment.”

Jeeny: “That’s how everything beautiful starts — with someone unafraid to try.”

Host: The snowstorm outside thickened, blurring the world into stillness. Inside, the room pulsed with color and heat.

Jack turned to Jeeny, eyes bright now.

Jack: “You know what I love about that quote? It’s not just about music. It’s about faith — in small beginnings. A mother’s gift. A boy’s curiosity. A spark in a basement that changes the sound of a generation.”

Jeeny: “It’s proof that you don’t need permission to start. Just tools — and time.”

Jack: “And audacity.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The audacity to believe that something small can echo.”

Host: The rhythm deepened. The room seemed to move with it — a living heartbeat of potential.

Jeeny: “You realize, don’t you, that this — all of it — is how revolutions sound at first? Not like explosions, but like experiments.”

Jack: “And every experiment starts with a question: What if?”

Jeeny: “What if I press this key? What if I write this line? What if I refuse to wait for someone else to define me?”

Jack: “That’s how genius sneaks in — disguised as curiosity.”

Host: The storm eased. The windowpane glowed faintly with streetlight, and the faint hum of city life returned, distant but alive. The beat kept looping, steady now — a rhythm that felt like memory.

Jeeny stood, stretching, her voice soft.

Jeeny: “You know, I think Metro’s story is really about grace. The kind that happens when love meets potential — when someone gives you the first tool, and the universe gives you the rest.”

Jack: “Grace through gadgets. Faith through software.”

Jeeny: [smiling] “Exactly. Modern miracles.”

Jack: “You think his mom knew what she was giving him?”

Jeeny: “She didn’t have to. Parents rarely see the future they ignite. They just light the candle.”

Host: The two stood at the window now, watching the quiet street below — fresh snow untouched, the city shimmering in its temporary innocence.

Jeeny: “You know what the best part is? The fact that he still remembers the gift. That he still talks about it. Gratitude — that’s what separates artists from opportunists.”

Jack: “And love — that’s what keeps the art honest.”

Host: The music faded, the screen dimmed, and silence settled like snowfall.

Jack closed the laptop, the room now lit only by the last glow of the Christmas lights still strung along the window.

Jeeny turned to him, her voice almost a whisper.

Jeeny: “Beauty doesn’t always come from brilliance. Sometimes it just comes from beginning.”

Jack: “And sometimes beginning is enough.”

Host: The lights flickered softly. Outside, the snow glowed under the streetlamps — untouched, waiting, full of promise.

And somewhere in that quiet — between a 13-year-old’s laptop and a world yet to be shaped — the echo of Metro Boomin’s words rang true:

That every masterpiece begins as a mess,
every sound as a guess,
and every future as a gift from someone who believed —
long before the world did.