When I was 14, 15, 16, I was wearing 'Edward Scissorhands' and

Host: The streetlights hummed in a lonely rhythm above the empty parking lot, where the rain had just begun to fall, turning the asphalt into a mirror of neon reflections. A movie theater marquee, half the bulbs burnt out, read: “Midnight Retrospective — Tim Burton Classics.”

The air was heavy with nostalgia — the kind that smells of popcorn gone stale and youth long gone. The poster of Edward Scissorhands clung to the glass, faded and torn, but still hauntingly beautiful in its fragility.

Inside the small, dim theater lobby, Jack sat slouched in a cracked red chair, his hands buried deep in his coat pockets. Jeeny stood near the old concession counter, tracing the dust along the glass as the sound of Danny Elfman’s score drifted faintly from the screening room beyond.

Jeeny: “Kate Leth once said when she was fifteen, she wore Edward Scissorhands and Nightmare Before Christmas stuff — saw Sleepy Hollow a dozen times. I guess some of us grew up haunted by beauty.”

Jack: (smirking) “Or just haunted by loneliness dressed up as art.”

Jeeny: “You think those films were about loneliness?”

Jack: “Of course they were. Every Burton character is an outsider begging the world to make sense. People fall in love with that because it makes them feel less crazy about their own weirdness. But at the end of the day — it’s still make-believe.”

Jeeny: “Is it? Or is it the only kind of truth we’re brave enough to admit?”

Host: The rain tapped against the windows, soft but relentless. The faint glow of the projector light from the next room spilled through the doorway, casting moving shadows over their faces — like ghosts of stories still being told.

Jack: “You know, when I was fifteen, I didn’t dress like a corpse or quote Burton films. I was too busy trying not to get punched for being different.”

Jeeny: (smiling gently) “That’s the same thing, Jack. You were still hiding behind something — you just picked toughness instead of darkness.”

Jack: “You make it sound poetic. It wasn’t. I just learned early that the world doesn’t have time for people who feel too much.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why people like Kate Leth loved those movies. They made feeling too much seem… powerful. Like sadness could be art, and weirdness could be beautiful.”

Jack: (dry laugh) “Or profitable. Don’t forget the merch.”

Host: Jeeny turned toward him, her eyes catching the light. They gleamed like old film reels, alive with memory.

Jeeny: “You ever think about how strange it is? That whole generation of kids dressed like ghosts because it made them feel seen. The black eyeliner, the striped sleeves, the obsession with the tragic hero — it wasn’t rebellion, it was self-recognition.”

Jack: “Yeah. Until it became a trend. Then the same kids started mocking the next ones for doing it. The cycle of irony never ends.”

Jeeny: “But the feeling was real. The first time you saw someone like Edward — broken, misunderstood, creating beauty in spite of being rejected — it told you something you didn’t know how to say: You’re not alone.”

Jack: (quietly) “I guess I can respect that. The idea that pain can become language.”

Host: The projector’s hum grew louder. From inside the theater, a scene flickered — Johnny Depp standing in the snow, scissors glinting under moonlight. The white flakes fell across his pale face like absolution. Jeeny’s eyes lingered on it, and for a moment, she looked fourteen again — fragile, defiant, dreaming.

Jeeny: “Do you remember the first movie that made you feel something you couldn’t name?”

Jack: (pauses) “Yeah. Taxi Driver. I didn’t get it at the time, but I knew it meant something. Like watching a mirror that didn’t reflect what I wanted, but what I was afraid of.”

Jeeny: “Burton’s mirror was softer. His monsters didn’t hate the world — they just wanted to belong to it.”

Jack: “And that’s why it’s fantasy. Because the real world doesn’t welcome its monsters. It crushes them, then sells their ashes as aesthetic.”

Jeeny: “You’re wrong. Sometimes it remembers them. Every generation has its outsiders who teach it empathy. The goth kids, the punks, the dreamers — they carry the same message: It’s okay to be different.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, elbows on knees, his voice dropping low.

Jack: “You really think movies can teach empathy?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Why else do people cry over stories they know aren’t real?”

Jack: “Because they want to feel something without paying the price.”

Jeeny: “No — because for two hours, they remember what being human feels like. They see the fragile, awkward, beautiful parts of themselves reflected back — and that recognition is sacred.”

Jack: “So Burton’s snow is sacred now?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “To the lonely ones, yes.”

Host: The lamp above them flickered once, then steadied, its light spilling over the empty seats. Outside, the rain softened to a drizzle, leaving the world smelling like old dreams and asphalt.

Jack: “You know, I used to think people who obsessed over those films were just pretending. Like they wanted tragedy because they hadn’t met the real thing yet.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: (sighs) “Now I think they were rehearsing. Trying to make peace with the darkness before life handed it to them.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what art does. It doesn’t save us — it prepares us.”

Jack: “And maybe it teaches us how to make the darkness beautiful, even if we can’t escape it.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Edward did. What Sally did. What Ichabod Crane did. Every one of them — broken, awkward, trembling — but still choosing wonder over despair.”

Host: The music from the film bled softly into the lobby, tender and melancholic. The notes hung in the air like snowflakes suspended mid-fall — fleeting, pure, impossible to hold.

Jack: (softly) “When I was fifteen, I laughed at people like that. Now I envy them.”

Jeeny: “Why?”

Jack: “Because they believed in beauty even when everything looked like decay. I’ve forgotten how to do that.”

Jeeny: “You haven’t forgotten. You’ve just grown scared of disappointment.”

Jack: “Maybe disappointment is just adulthood’s version of faith.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe nostalgia is its prayer.”

Host: Her words lingered, echoing softly through the half-lit space. The movie ended inside, the credits rolling to a swelling symphony of violins and choral sighs. Through the glass door, snow began to fall — artificial flakes from a machine the theater manager had turned on for atmosphere. But to Jack and Jeeny, it looked heartbreakingly real.

Jeeny: “You know why I think Kate Leth saw Sleepy Hollow a dozen times? Because it wasn’t about horror. It was about longing — for a world that feels like a dream, even when it’s filled with ghosts.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s why people go to movies. To live inside their own ghosts for a while.”

Jeeny: “And to remember they’re not the only ones haunted.”

Host: The snow machine clicked off. Silence returned. Jeeny pulled her coat tight and walked toward the door. Jack stayed seated, watching her silhouette framed against the falling flakes.

Jeeny: (turning back) “You ever wonder what it would be like — to live without the armor? To just be strange, open, and unashamed again?”

Jack: “Every damn day.”

Jeeny: “Then start there.”

Host: She stepped out into the cold, the flakes catching in her hair, melting as they touched her skin. Jack followed a moment later, standing beside her beneath the flickering marquee, where the word “Burton” still glowed faintly against the dark sky.

The street was empty, the world quiet, as if holding its breath for a dream it once had.

Host: The camera panned upward — the snow (real or not) falling gently over them. Two figures in a world of gray, standing beneath a sign from another era, illuminated by nostalgia’s fading light.

In that moment — brief, fragile, and utterly human — they didn’t feel like cynics or believers.

Just children, once again, watching snow fall from scissors.