The songs always have to come from a real experience.

Host: The sunset was a bleeding wound across the sky, dripping orange and crimson over the edge of an old pier. The waves licked the wooden beams beneath, their sound rhythmic, like a heartbeat half-lost in the distance. A guitar case lay open beside Jack, a few coins tossed in by strangers. Jeeny sat next to him, her knees tucked, her hair whipped by the sea breeze, her eyes fixed on the horizon as though it might confess something.

The city behind them murmured faintly — a choir of engines, laughter, sirens, and life. But here, the world slowed down, every word and breath carrying its own echo.

Jeeny: “Dean Lewis once said, ‘The songs always have to come from a real experience.’”
Jack: (tuning the guitar absently) “Yeah, I’ve heard that one. Sounds like something songwriters say to sound profound.”
Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “You don’t believe it?”
Jack: “I believe songs come from skill, not suffering. You don’t need to have your heart broken to write about love — you just need to observe, to imagine. That’s the craft.”
Jeeny: “But observation isn’t the same as living it, Jack. A song without truth is like a mirror without reflection — it might look beautiful, but it won’t show you anything real.”

Host: A seagull cried overhead, its sound sharp against the dimming sky. Jack plucked a few notes, the melody brittle, like glass about to break. He looked out across the water, where the light shimmered like a secret only the sea understood.

Jack: “You’re romanticizing pain again. Every time someone says ‘real experience,’ they mean ‘real suffering.’ You think art has to bleed to matter.”
Jeeny: “No, I think art has to feel. That’s different. A song born from imagination can be clever, maybe even catchy — but the ones that stay with people are the ones that carry truth. Why do you think Adele can make a room cry with three notes?”
Jack: “Because she’s talented.”
Jeeny: “Because she’s honest.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the faint smell of salt and street food from the boardwalk. Jack’s hands paused on the strings. The word “honest” seemed to linger, like a ghost perched between them.

Jack: “Honesty’s overrated in art. No one wants the real story. They want the polished version that makes them forget theirs.”
Jeeny: “Maybe that’s true for the stage. But when someone listens to a song alone — really listens — they don’t want perfection. They want to know someone else has been through what they’re feeling. That’s what makes it real.”
Jack: “You talk like feelings are facts. But feelings lie. Ever heard of nostalgia? It paints the past in gold when it was barely bronze.”
Jeeny: “And yet, people write songs about nostalgia every day. Because even if it lies, it tells the truth about what the heart wants.”

Host: The first streetlight flickered to life behind them, casting a halo of pale light that made Jeeny’s hair shimmer like liquid ink. The guitar hummed quietly in Jack’s hands, an unspoken argument waiting to be sung.

Jack: “So what, every song has to come from some heartbreak, some tragedy? That’s not sustainable. You’d run out of tears.”
Jeeny: “Not every song. Just the ones that matter.”
Jack: “You sound like one of those idealists who’d rather be miserable and ‘authentic’ than content and forgotten.”
Jeeny: “Maybe. But misery isn’t the point — meaning is. Look at Bob Dylan. He wasn’t trying to be famous; he was trying to tell the truth about what he saw. The fame followed.”
Jack: “Dylan also wrote songs about things he didn’t live. Vietnam. Injustice. Things far beyond him.”
Jeeny: “But he felt them, Jack. Empathy is an experience too.”

Host: A brief silence settled, filled only by the lap of the tide and the distant hum of neon. Jeeny leaned forward, her voice lower, softer, as if speaking to something fragile between them.

Jeeny: “Do you remember that time last year — when your brother left, and you wrote that song ‘Driftwood’? You said it was just another project. But I heard it. Every word bled with what you couldn’t say out loud.”
Jack: (looks down, tense) “That was different.”
Jeeny: “Why? Because it was real?”
Jack: “Because it hurt.”

Host: The air thickened with the weight of memory. The sun had finally drowned in the sea, leaving only a line of fire along the edge of the world. Jack’s eyes, once steel, were now clouded with something softer — something that trembled when it breathed.

Jeeny: “That’s what I mean. You can’t fake that kind of truth. You can imitate the sound of heartbreak, but not the silence that follows it.”
Jack: “You make it sound like art has to be therapy.”
Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe songs are just the things we build when we can’t hold our own pain anymore.”
Jack: “Or maybe they’re just noise we make so we don’t have to hear it.”

Host: The waves rose, crashing harder now, as if echoing their tension. The pier creaked, old wood complaining beneath the weight of two souls tangled in belief.

Jeeny: “You hide behind logic like it’s armor, Jack. But even armor cracks. You write because you feel. You just won’t admit it.”
Jack: “And you think feeling is enough. But without form, without discipline, it’s chaos. Look at Van Gogh — a genius drowned by his own emotions. Is that what you want art to be?”
Jeeny: “No. But I want it to be alive. Van Gogh may have suffered, but his work breathes more than most of us ever will. His pain became color. His loneliness became light.”
Jack: (quietly) “And it killed him.”
Jeeny: “But it saved us.”

Host: The wind whipped through, cold and insistent. Jack’s fingers tightened on the guitar. He strummed, just once — a trembling, raw note that quivered like an open wound. It hung in the air, fading into the hush that followed.

Jeeny: (gently) “That’s it. That’s what Dean Lewis meant. Real songs come from real experiences — not because they need to, but because they can’t come from anywhere else. You didn’t think about that note. You felt it.”
Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe it was just instinct.”
Jeeny: “Instinct is emotion’s muscle memory.”

Host: A thin smile cracked across Jack’s lips. It wasn’t agreement — more like surrender, or maybe recognition. The kind of smile that says, You might be right, but I’m not ready to admit it.

Jack: “So, you’re saying the world doesn’t need more songs — it needs more scars?”
Jeeny: “Not scars. Stories. Scars just prove we lived; stories prove we understood.”
Jack: “And what if some of us would rather not understand?”
Jeeny: “Then you’ll write clever songs, Jack. But they’ll never make anyone cry.”

Host: The moon broke through a patch of cloud, its light spilling across the pier like milk over dark wood. Jack turned, looking at Jeeny — her eyes bright, her cheeks touched by the cool glow.

Jack: “You really think the world cares where a song comes from?”
Jeeny: “No. But the world feels it when it’s true. Even if they can’t explain why.”
Jack: “You think that’s what makes someone an artist?”
Jeeny: “No. I think that’s what makes someone human.”

Host: The waves slowed, their rhythm calming, as though the sea itself had exhaled. Jack set the guitar down beside him, his hands trembling just slightly. For a long moment, they said nothing. The sound of the water, the distant music from a boardwalk speaker, and the heartbeat of silence filled the air between them.

Then Jack whispered, more to the night than to her —
Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the best songs are the ones we never wanted to write.”
Jeeny: “Because they’re the ones that already existed inside us — waiting to be heard.”

Host: The moonlight deepened, wrapping them in silver. Jack lifted the guitar, played a soft, aching progression — nothing practiced, nothing perfect. Just truth, fragile and unguarded. Jeeny closed her eyes, letting the melody sink into the night like a confession.

When the final note faded, she smiled.
Jeeny: “There. Now that one came from somewhere real.”
Jack: (softly, with a trace of awe) “Yeah… I think it did.”

Host: The sea breathed, the stars trembled, and in that small, forgotten corner of the world, two souls sat side by side — where experience became sound, and sound became something eternal.