They say depression is just anger turned inward. Sometimes I turn

Host: The city night hung heavy like a sigh — thick with smog, neon reflections, and the low hum of human fatigue. In the half-lit corner of a near-empty subway station, the air trembled with the sound of a distant train rumbling through the tunnels — a pulse beneath the city’s skin.

The walls were tattooed with old graffiti, half-covered by posters for concerts long canceled. A flickering light buzzed above, its stuttered glow making time feel uncertain — the kind of place where silence isn’t quiet, only abandoned.

Jack sat on a metal bench, elbows on his knees, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. The smoke curled upward, a fragile ghost against the ceiling. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against a concrete column, her dark eyes watching him not with pity, but recognition.

Jeeny: “Vic Mensa once said, ‘They say depression is just anger turned inward. Sometimes I turn it outwards, sometimes I turn it inward, but I know it’s about self-worth.’”

Jack: without looking up “Self-worth. Hell of a currency. Everyone wants it; no one knows how to earn it.”

Jeeny: softly “Maybe it’s not earned. Maybe it’s remembered.”

Jack: “Remembered? You make it sound like we’re born knowing it.”

Jeeny: “We are. Watch a child — they don’t question their right to take up space. They laugh like the world owes them joy. Somewhere along the line, someone convinces us we have to deserve it.”

Jack: takes a drag, exhales slowly “Yeah. And when the world stops clapping, the silence feels like proof you’re worthless.”

Jeeny: “You mistake silence for judgment. It’s just space — space for you to listen to yourself.”

Jack: “You ever listen to yourself when you’re in that hole, Jeeny? It’s not silence. It’s static.”

Host: The train roared past them, shaking the platform. Its lights flashed through the smoke, briefly painting Jack’s face — tired, defiant, and cracked with something old and unhealed. When it passed, the darkness returned heavier than before.

Jeeny: “He said depression is anger turned inward. That makes sense. It’s fury with no target. A war fought in your own skin.”

Jack: nods slowly “Yeah. It’s rage without oxygen. You burn quietly until you vanish.”

Jeeny: “And when you turn it outward?”

Jack: a bitter smile “You just trade the pain for guilt. Either way, it circles back.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s never really about who you hit. It’s about who you couldn’t save.”

Jack: looking at her now, voice low “And who’s that?”

Jeeny: “Yourself.”

Host: A drip from a leaky pipe echoed through the tunnel, steady, rhythmic, like time reminding them it hadn’t stopped. Jack rubbed his temple, eyes distant, as if trying to find the shape of something invisible inside himself.

Jack: “You know, I’ve been angry my whole damn life. Angry at the system, the noise, the lies — but mostly at myself. For believing I could ever be more than average.”

Jeeny: steps closer “That’s not self-awareness, Jack. That’s self-cruelty.”

Jack: grins faintly “A thin line between the two.”

Jeeny: “No. Awareness is seeing your flaws. Cruelty is painting over your worth because of them.”

Jack: “You sound like a therapist with poetry training.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I’m just someone who knows what drowning feels like.”

Jack: “And what — you swam out?”

Jeeny: quietly “No. I learned how to float.”

Host: The light above them flickered again, a pulse of artificial sunrise. The dust shimmered in the air, suspended — like thoughts that refused to land.

Jack dropped the cigarette, crushed it beneath his boot, and leaned back against the wall.

Jack: “You think self-worth’s something you can rebuild?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s something you uncover. Like ruins beneath the city — buried, but not gone.”

Jack: after a pause “What if all you find are ashes?”

Jeeny: “Then you learn to plant in them.”

Jack: quietly, almost to himself “Plant what?”

Jeeny: “Forgiveness.”

Host: The station was nearly empty now, save for a drunk sleeping near the far end and the quiet hum of the next train coming from miles away. The air vibrated faintly — not noise, but presence.

Jack rubbed his palms together, a restless rhythm, the sound small but human.

Jack: “You know, when Mensa said it’s about self-worth — that hit me. Because depression isn’t just sadness. It’s believing you’re not worth the effort it takes to feel better.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s the moment you stop fighting for yourself because you think you’ve already lost.”

Jack: “And the world keeps telling you to ‘man up,’ ‘smile more,’ ‘shake it off.’ But no one tells you how to find yourself again once you’re gone.”

Jeeny: “That’s because they’re scared of the darkness. But the truth is, you can’t heal without facing it.”

Jack: “You sound fearless.”

Jeeny: smiles faintly “No. I just learned that light doesn’t show up until you stop running from it.”

Host: The train finally arrived — slow, loud, its doors sighing open like a confession. No one got off. No one got on. It lingered, waiting, patient as time.

The wind from the tunnel brushed against them — cold, real, cleansing.

Jack: looking at the train “Sometimes I wonder if anger’s the only thing keeping people alive. Like if we let go of it, we’d just... disappear.”

Jeeny: “Anger’s not evil. It’s information. It tells you where you’ve been hurt. But if you let it drive, it takes you in circles.”

Jack: half-smiles “So what’s the alternative?”

Jeeny: “Turn it into movement. Into music. Into something that reminds you you’re more than your wound.”

Jack: “That’s poetic.”

Jeeny: “No — that’s survival.”

Host: The train doors closed. The sound reverberated through the station like a heartbeat. Jack stood slowly, his posture still heavy, but less resigned. He looked at Jeeny, a faint light in his expression — not joy, but recognition.

Jack: “You ever think maybe depression’s not just anger — it’s grief? Grieving the person you were supposed to be?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But grief means you still care. And caring is proof you’re not done.”

Jack: quietly “You make it sound like living’s an act of rebellion.”

Jeeny: “It is. Every day you choose to stay, you’re defying extinction.”

Host: The station hummed with silence again — the kind that comes not from emptiness, but from understanding. The faint scent of smoke lingered in the air, mingling with metal and damp concrete — human traces on an inhuman night.

Jack looked down at the crushed cigarette, then at the empty tracks. His voice, when it came, was softer.

Jack: “Maybe Mensa was right. Maybe it’s all self-worth in the end.”

Jeeny: nods slowly “Not the kind people give you — the kind you reclaim.”

Jack: “And when you finally find it?”

Jeeny: “You stop needing to be saved.”

Jack: after a pause “And start saving yourself.”

Host: The lights flickered one last time before steadying. The world beyond the tunnel was still dark, but somewhere — faintly — the sound of morning began.

The two of them stood in silence, the echoes of the departing train fading behind them, replaced by something quieter, gentler.

The sound of breathing.
Of surviving.

And in that dim, trembling light, Vic Mensa’s words felt less like despair and more like a map — a compass pointing inward:

Depression is not weakness.
It is the battle between rage and worth.
Between silence and scream.
Between the part of you that wants to disappear
and the part still whispering,
“I deserve to be here.”

And for the first time that night,
Jack and Jeeny did not argue with that whisper.
They listened.
And they believed it.