Sometimes you just need to raise your voice. And sometimes a

Host: The evening light bled through the tall warehouse windows, streaking the room in burnt orange and dust. Outside, the city pulsed — sirens, car horns, the throb of restless life — but inside, everything was still except for the echo of a voice that had just finished shouting.

The sound lingered, trembling in the air like the aftermath of thunder.

Jack stood in the center of the room, his chest heaving, his hands trembling slightly, the kind of tremor that wasn’t from fear, but from holding too much in for too long. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against a concrete column, arms crossed, her dark eyes sharp, her breath calm but heavy — like someone standing close to a storm they didn’t try to stop.

A broken chair lay on its side between them. Somewhere, a radio buzzed softly, too low to compete with what had just happened.

Jeeny: “Corey Hawkins once said, ‘Sometimes you just need to raise your voice. And sometimes a little anger is necessary, to be honest.’”

Host: Her voice came steady, almost tender — like water poured carefully into fire.

Jack: (bitterly) “You quoting actors at me now?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m quoting honesty.”

Jack: (half-laughing) “Honesty’s overrated.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s overdue.”

Host: He looked away, his jaw tight, his eyes glassy with that quiet frustration that lives somewhere between sadness and fury.

Jack: “You think yelling fixes anything?”

Jeeny: “I think silence kills more.”

Jack: “Silence gives you space to think.”

Jeeny: “No. It gives lies room to grow.”

Host: Her words struck him — not hard, but precise, like a chisel tapping at the edge of stone.

Jack: (low) “You don’t understand. If I let it out — if I let all of it out — I don’t think I could stop.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s the point. Maybe you’ve been mistaking suppression for strength.”

Host: The light from the window shifted, brushing her face — soft, golden, defiant.

Jeeny: “Anger’s not evil, Jack. It’s just energy. It’s what you do with it that decides the outcome.”

Jack: “You sound like a therapist.”

Jeeny: “No. I sound like someone who’s tired of watching you choke on your own restraint.”

Host: He turned sharply, pacing toward the wall, running his fingers through his hair. The silence after their argument was almost too loud, thick with unspoken things.

Jack: “You don’t know what it’s like to keep it together when everything’s falling apart — when you’re the one holding the pieces for everyone else.”

Jeeny: (softly) “You think I’ve never been angry?”

Jack: (turning) “Not like me.”

Jeeny: “You’re wrong.”

Host: She stepped forward then, her eyes burning, her voice trembling not with fear, but with truth ready to detonate.

Jeeny: “I’ve been angry at men who spoke over me. At systems that never saw me. At days when I worked twice as hard for half the recognition. At God, even — for giving me a heart that feels too much in a world that listens too little.”

Jack: (quietly) “And what did you do with that anger?”

Jeeny: “I turned it into motion. Into art. Into words that cut through apathy. You think calmness is peace, Jack? Sometimes peace has to shout to be heard.”

Host: Her voice echoed across the walls — not loud, but resonant, fierce with the kind of conviction that only comes from scars.

Jack: (after a pause) “You think anger is noble?”

Jeeny: “No. But it’s honest. It’s what happens when truth hits a wall.”

Jack: “Then what? You break the wall?”

Jeeny: “If it keeps you imprisoned — yes.”

Host: The rain outside began, tapping faintly against the glass. The air shifted; the tension turned from heat to gravity.

Jack: “I grew up being told anger makes you weak. Makes you reckless. My father — he’d explode. Break things. My mother would just stand there, silent, cleaning up after him. I swore I’d never be like him.”

Jeeny: “And instead, you became the silence.”

Jack: (swallowing) “Yeah.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s worse. At least he didn’t pretend.”

Host: He flinched — not from her tone, but from the accuracy of it.

Jack: “You think I should be proud of losing control?”

Jeeny: “No. But you should be proud of finally speaking. You can’t heal what you keep hidden.”

Host: The sound of thunder rolled through the distance, low and deliberate. The light dimmed further, shadows stretching long across the floor.

Jack: (softly) “I scared you, didn’t I?”

Jeeny: “No. You scared yourself.”

Jack: (after a pause) “I don’t want to be that man.”

Jeeny: “Then don’t run from your anger — learn from it. It’s trying to show you what still hurts.”

Host: She stepped closer, close enough that he could feel her breath, smell the faint hint of rain and coffee on her skin.

Jeeny: “You can’t keep pretending anger makes you the villain, Jack. Sometimes it’s just your pain finally refusing to whisper.”

Jack: (hoarse) “And if I hurt someone?”

Jeeny: “Then you own it. You apologize. But don’t bury the truth to protect the illusion of being good.”

Host: Her hand rose slowly, resting on his chest — right where his heart was pounding like a trapped thing.

Jeeny: “You feel that? That’s not rage. That’s life, asking to be heard.”

Jack: (closing his eyes) “I don’t know if I can control it.”

Jeeny: “Then start by not fearing it.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, its rhythm steady and almost cleansing. The sound filled the silence that followed — not erasing it, but redeeming it.

Jack: (after a long moment) “You know, Corey Hawkins said anger’s sometimes necessary to be honest. Maybe honesty’s what’s been missing all along.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Anger’s not the opposite of peace. It’s the first step toward it — if you let it burn clean.”

Host: He nodded, his shoulders easing, the tightness in his jaw finally giving way to something softer — the first breath after years of holding it in.

Jack: “I’ve spent my life apologizing for every spark. Maybe it’s time I learned to use the fire instead of fearing it.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Good. Because the world doesn’t need more quiet men pretending to be calm. It needs honest ones who’ve learned how to speak.”

Host: Outside, the rain began to slow. The clouds shifted, revealing the faintest glimmer of moonlight through the glass. The storm, like their anger, had done its work.

Jack looked around the room — at the broken chair, the shadows, the mess of the moment — and then back at her.

Jack: “You think I can rebuild from this?”

Jeeny: “Only if you stop pretending nothing needed breaking.”

Host: She smiled then — small, forgiving, fierce. The kind of smile that doesn’t erase the storm, but welcomes the calm that follows it.

Jack exhaled, a sound halfway between relief and surrender.

And as the last raindrops fell, the room felt lighter — not empty, but honest.

Because sometimes, as Corey Hawkins knew,
truth doesn’t come in whispers or in stillness —
it comes in raised voices, in trembling hands,
in the courage to let the world see the fire you’ve been hiding.

For anger, when born of love and spoken with truth,
is not destruction.
It is release.