So I'm not worried about the emotions I carry with me, because

Host: The recording studio was quiet now, long after midnight. The red “ON AIR” light had been switched off, and the room hummed with the soft sound of cooling equipment. Empty coffee cups lined the mixing desk, their shadows stretching across the soundboard like the afterthoughts of a long, emotional night.

Through the glass window, the city lights shimmered — blurred jewels against a dark velvet skyline. The faint scent of smoke, leather, and perfume lingered in the air — the perfume of someone who had left the room but not the atmosphere.

Jack sat in the engineer’s chair, fingers resting on the faded dials, the hum of the old analog console under his hands like a steady pulse. Jeeny sat cross-legged on the floor nearby, a half-empty bottle of wine beside her, her dark hair falling around her face as she leaned back against the wall, listening to the silence.

Jeeny: quietly, almost like she’s afraid to disturb the stillness “Diana Ross once said — ‘So I’m not worried about the emotions I carry with me, because I’m happy that I have them; I think it’s good for the work I do. The emotions that are not healthy are the ones you hold inside, like anger.’”

Jack: half-smiling, not looking up “Leave it to a singer to say something like that. Only artists talk about emotions like they’re raw material.”

Jeeny: gently “Maybe because they are. You can’t fake what you feel and still call it art.”

Host: The faint hum of the console deepened — a low vibration that seemed to blend with the tension in the room. Jack adjusted one of the sliders absently, though no sound came from the speakers.

Jack: “Funny thing is, we spend our whole lives trying to hide emotion — bury it, numb it, make it behave. But people like Ross — they build their entire legacy out of it.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “Because she knows the difference between feeling and festering. One breathes, the other poisons.”

Jack: finally looks at her, intrigued “Festering?”

Jeeny: “Yeah. When you trap what you feel — pretend it’s not there — it rots. Anger, sadness, even love. They all start as pure things. It’s the suppression that turns them sour.”

Host: Jack leaned back in his chair, eyes on the ceiling, the dim light reflecting off the curve of the soundboard. His expression softened — the kind of look that comes from recognizing truth you’ve been avoiding.

Jack: quietly “I used to think anger made me strong. Like it gave me an edge. It helped me push through things. But lately, it just... stays. Lingers. Like smoke that doesn’t leave the room.”

Jeeny: “That’s because anger pretends to be strength when it’s actually pain in disguise.”

Jack: “Then what’s strength?”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Letting it go before it owns you.”

Host: He laughed softly, the kind of laugh that hides exhaustion. He picked up a guitar resting against the console, strummed one chord — low, raw, imperfect. The sound filled the room like a confession.

Jack: “You know, she’s right. About emotion being good for the work. When I was younger, I used to write songs to impress people. Now, I just write to understand myself.”

Jeeny: gently “And that’s when the music starts telling the truth.”

Jack: “You ever think about that? How the best art comes from pain — not the kind that destroys, but the kind that teaches?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Pain sharpens empathy. It cracks you open just enough for the light to get in.”

Jack: quietly, with a faint smile “Quoting Leonard Cohen now?”

Jeeny: grinning “Borrowing wisdom’s not a crime.”

Host: The studio lights flickered slightly, their glow reflecting in the glass — twin shadows staring back at them. The air was thick with unspoken things, the kind that only surface when the world outside has gone completely still.

Jack: murmuring “Ross talked about being happy to have emotions. You think that’s possible? To actually be glad for all of them — even the ugly ones?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s necessary. You can’t choose which emotions to feel and still call yourself whole. If you numb sadness, you numb joy too.”

Jack: sighs, rubbing his face “So what — just let it all in? Let it break you if it wants to?”

Jeeny: softly “Let it move through you. That’s different. You’re not supposed to hold on — you’re supposed to feel, then release.”

Host: The rain began outside, slow at first, then steady — each drop tapping against the window like percussion. Jack’s fingers moved across the strings again, this time gentler. The melody was simple, almost childlike, but full of ache.

Jeeny closed her eyes, listening.

Jeeny: whispering “That’s it. That’s what Ross meant. The healthy emotion — it flows. You’re not hoarding it, you’re channeling it.”

Jack: half-smiling “Yeah. But the world doesn’t reward that. It rewards the ones who look composed, not the ones who feel deeply.”

Jeeny: “That’s because the world’s afraid of emotion. People mistake vulnerability for weakness. But the ones who dare to feel — they’re the real builders. They take chaos and make art out of it.”

Host: Jack’s eyes softened. He played a few more notes — slow, raw, real. The kind of sound that doesn’t need polish to be beautiful.

Jack: “So you’re saying emotion’s not the problem. Holding it in is.”

Jeeny: nodding “Exactly. Anger, grief, love — they’re just energy. If you don’t let them move, they turn into ghosts.”

Jack: quietly “And I’ve got a few too many of those.”

Jeeny: smiling sadly “Then start turning them into songs.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked quietly, marking time in soft, forgiving beats. The rain outside blurred the city lights into watercolor smudges. The studio felt smaller now, but safer — a sanctuary for two souls who had stopped pretending not to feel.

Jack: after a long pause “You know, she was brave — Ross. To say that publicly. Especially in an industry that eats you alive if you admit you’re emotional.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what made her great. Not the voice — the vulnerability behind it.”

Jack: smiles faintly “Yeah. Maybe all great art is just courage wearing pain.”

Jeeny: “And love wearing honesty.”

Host: She leaned her head back against the wall, closing her eyes, the faintest smile curving her lips. The rain softened, fading into a whisper.

Jack set the guitar down gently and stood, walking toward the window. The glass was cold beneath his fingertips. Outside, the city seemed smaller — fragile, almost tender.

Jack: softly “You ever think about how much anger this world carries? How much of it’s just people who never learned to let go?”

Jeeny: “All the time. But that’s why we need people like her — like Ross, like you — to show that emotion isn’t weakness. It’s the art of staying human.”

Jack: smiling “And that’s the only art that matters.”

Host: The camera would linger on the reflection in the window — two silhouettes framed by rain and light, a world of emotion suspended between them.

The faint hum of the console continued, steady as a heartbeat. The moment — quiet, intimate, full — was the kind of beauty that only comes when people stop holding back.

And as Diana Ross once said, with the grace of someone who had learned to sing truth into sound —

that emotion is not a burden but a blessing,
that anger only hurts when it hides,
and that the soul only truly works
when it feels everything
and lets it flow.