When I got into the music industry, I wasn't focused on being the

Host: The recording studio pulsed with low, amber light — the kind that hides both exhaustion and magic. Cables coiled across the floor like sleeping snakes, speakers hummed softly, and the faint scent of coffee and burnt vinyl lingered in the air.

Outside, the city night glowed electric and indifferent. Inside, two figures sat amid the ghosts of melodies — one staring at a mixing board, the other staring at a dream that refused to die.

Jack leaned forward in his chair, the blue LED lights from the soundboard catching the sharpness in his eyes. He was in his mid-thirties, with the kind of tired confidence that only comes from a decade of chasing perfection. Jeeny sat across from him, legs tucked beneath her, her hair loose, her face smeared faintly with glitter and defiance. A small mirror and a mess of brushes lay beside her notebook.

The air between them buzzed — not with conflict yet, but with the heavy vibration of two people who’ve lived too long between art and compromise.

And from the speaker above, a voice played softly — clear, bold, electric:
"When I got into the music industry, I wasn’t focused on being the most famous artist or even getting a major record deal. It was just to make music on my own terms, or create my own image, do my own hair, do my own makeup." — Janelle Monáe

Jeeny turned up the volume, and the words hung in the air like a quiet anthem.

Jeeny: “There. That’s it. That’s what I’ve been trying to say.”

Jack: “What — that you want to be your own stylist now?”

Jeeny: “No, that I want to own myself.”

Jack: “You do own yourself. You wrote the song. You sang it. You produced it.”

Jeeny: “Yeah, and then you mixed it till it sounded like everyone else.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. The red recording light blinked in the corner, silent but judgmental.

Jack: “I made it sound polished. That’s what gets people to listen.”

Jeeny: “No, that’s what gets people to forget. You made it safe. You took the heartbeat out of it.”

Jack: “You think raw equals real? You can’t eat emotion if no one wants to taste it. Art needs audience.”

Jeeny: “Art needs truth. Audience comes later — or it doesn’t. But at least it’s yours.”

Host: The soundboard flickered, catching their reflection — his in cold precision, hers in restless fire. The microphone between them looked like a confession booth waiting to be used.

Jeeny: “When Janelle Monáe said that, I felt it. She didn’t chase fame. She built her freedom. That’s what I want, Jack — to stop asking for permission to be myself.”

Jack: “And you think the world will applaud that? The world doesn’t pay for authenticity; it pays for spectacle.”

Jeeny: “Then I’ll give them spectacle that’s honest. I’ll give them a woman who bleeds art instead of posing for it.”

Jack: “You’ll give them a brand. Whether you like it or not.”

Jeeny: “Then I’ll brand truth.”

Host: She stood, her shadow falling across the soundboard — the shadow of someone who had finally stopped asking, who had decided to take instead. The lamp light caught the edge of her face, her eyes alive with unfiltered conviction.

Jack: “You’re talking like rebellion doesn’t come with a bill. The label won’t fund chaos. They’ll drop you.”

Jeeny: “Then let them. I’m tired of being owned by approval.”

Jack: “Approval is the price of survival.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s the rent we pay for selling our soul.”

Host: The studio fell quiet. Outside, thunder rolled faintly over the city — not threatening, just there, like the hum of something big approaching. Jeeny walked toward the booth, closing the door behind her. The glass separated them — a literal wall between control and creation.

She adjusted the mic, placed the headphones on, and looked at Jack through the glass — eyes steady, daring him.

Jeeny: (through the mic) “You remember when we started this? You told me music was supposed to break you open, not build you a cage.”

Jack: “I said that before I learned cages sell.”

Jeeny: “Then you stopped being an artist.”

Jack: (softly) “Maybe. Or maybe I started surviving.”

Host: Her fingers brushed the mic. A single note escaped her throat — rough, unfinished, beautiful. It filled the room, not like a song, but like a declaration. Jack froze. That sound — raw, imperfect, alive — reminded him of something he had buried long ago.

Jeeny: “This is what I mean. The note isn’t perfect, but it’s mine. That’s the difference. I don’t need someone else to tune my truth.”

Jack: “You think purity will protect you from failure?”

Jeeny: “No. But it’ll protect me from regret.”

Host: The thunder outside cracked louder now, like applause from the sky. Jeeny removed the headphones, stepping out of the booth, her face glowing with the flush of someone who had rediscovered herself.

Jeeny: “You’ve spent your life chasing precision. I’ve spent mine chasing meaning. Maybe that’s why we keep missing each other.”

Jack: “Meaning doesn’t pay the rent, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “Then I’ll make art that eats.”

Jack: (after a pause) “You really think it’s that easy?”

Jeeny: “No. But I think it’s worth failing for.”

Host: Her words landed like thunder’s echo — soft but shaking something deep. Jack looked down at his hands, at the mixer — rows of knobs and switches that promised control. He realized, suddenly, that control wasn’t creation — it was fear with a nice interface.

Jack: “You know, you’re right. Somewhere along the line, I stopped listening to what was alive. I just started editing out the noise.”

Jeeny: “The noise is the art.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You sound like a manifesto.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I am.”

Host: The storm outside began to settle. Rain pattered gently against the windowpane, steady and rhythmic, like a metronome for truth.

Jeeny walked over to the mirror, picked up a brush, and began doing her makeup. Jack watched her — the quiet confidence in every stroke, the small ritual of reclaiming herself.

Jack: “You’re doing that before the next session?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m doing it because I like who I see when I do.”

Host: The reflection glowed — half woman, half artist, all self. No label, no compromise, no borrowed image.

Jack stood, crossed the room, and turned on the mic.

Jack: “Alright. Let’s record it again — your way this time.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “That’s the only way it should ever be.”

Host: The red recording light came alive once more. The rain played counterpoint outside. Jeeny closed her eyes, drew in a breath, and began to sing — not to please, not to prove, but to exist.

Her voice wasn’t perfect. It cracked, soared, trembled, and healed — all in one breath. Jack didn’t fix it. He didn’t dare.

The sound filled the studio — messy, alive, magnificent.

And as her voice bled into the night, the world outside seemed to pause —
as if to listen to a woman who finally remembered what she was born to do.

Host: When the last note faded, there was silence — heavy, sacred.

Jeeny opened her eyes, smiling softly.

Jeeny: “See? That’s me. No filter. No compromise.”

Jack: (quietly) “That’s freedom.”

Host: The light above the door flickered once before settling steady — red becoming gold. The storm had passed.

And somewhere in that small studio, amid the scent of rain and electricity, art was reborn —
not as product,
not as perfection,
but as truth lived out loud.