When you feel bad, find a person to talk to and cry with, to tell

Host: The night air hung heavy with rain and silence — that kind of silence that doesn’t mean peace, but the space before something breaks. The apartment was dim, lit only by the weak glow of a single lamp and the city lights leaking in through the half-closed blinds. On the coffee table, two empty mugs sat cold beside a box of tissues that had been opened hours ago.

Jeeny sat on the couch, her knees drawn up, her eyes swollen, her face turned slightly toward the window where the rain fell in diagonal streaks of silver. Her breathing was uneven — not sobbing, just that quiet rhythm of someone too tired to keep pretending.

Jack sat in the armchair across from her, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, his grey eyes following the small movements she made — a trembling hand brushing away a tear, a deep exhale, the faintest attempt at a smile that didn’t quite land.

The radio — long forgotten — murmured in the background, a low, compassionate voice reading something that fit the air perfectly:
"When you feel bad, find a person to talk to and cry with, to tell of your anger and other helpless feelings." — Clarissa Pinkola Estés

Neither of them spoke at first. The quote landed like rain on glass — gentle, but insistent.

Jeeny: “She always says things that sound so simple, but they cut right to the bone.”

Jack: “Yeah. Because no one ever tells you that feeling helpless is part of being human. Everyone wants you to fix it instead.”

Jeeny: “And when you can’t?”

Jack: “You fake it. Smile. Post something happy. Pretend the storm’s aesthetic.”

Jeeny: (dryly) “You sound like you’ve practiced that one.”

Jack: “I’ve got a PhD in pretending I’m fine.”

Jeeny: “I think most men do.”

Host: The rain softened, but the dripping sound outside filled the silence between them. Jack shifted in his chair, his voice lower now — not defensive, just real.

Jack: “You ever notice how people tell you to ‘stay strong’ when you’re breaking? Like strength is supposed to mean silence.”

Jeeny: “Yeah. But Clarissa’s right — strength isn’t silence. It’s surrendering to being seen.”

Jack: “That’s terrifying.”

Jeeny: “Of course it is. That’s why it’s healing.”

Host: The lamp flickered briefly, throwing their shadows across the wall — two shapes caught in stillness, both holding too much.

Jeeny: “You know what I hate most about pain? It isolates you. It convinces you that nobody could possibly understand. But the second someone sits down and says, ‘Me too,’ it loses half its power.”

Jack: “So, crying as a form of rebellion?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Against shame. Against loneliness. Against that voice that says ‘you’re too much.’”

Jack: “You always were good at turning vulnerability into a manifesto.”

Jeeny: (half-smiling) “And you’re good at turning everything into theory so you don’t have to feel it.”

Jack: “That’s unfair.”

Jeeny: “No. That’s true.”

Host: Her words weren’t cruel — just steady, like someone holding a mirror. Jack looked away, the muscles in his jaw tightening.

Jeeny: “When was the last time you actually cried, Jack?”

Jack: (after a pause) “Don’t remember.”

Jeeny: “Try.”

Jack: “Probably when my father died. But I was angry more than sad. Anger’s safer — it doesn’t make you look weak.”

Jeeny: “Anger’s not safer. It’s just louder. You drown in it slower.”

Jack: “You sound like Estés herself.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because she’s right. You can’t think your way out of pain — you have to feel your way through it.”

Host: The rain had stopped. The quiet now was different — less empty, more intimate. Jack leaned back, the exhaustion showing through his posture.

Jack: “You ever get tired of feeling everything so deeply?”

Jeeny: “Every damn day. But I’d rather drown in emotion than die of numbness.”

Jack: “You really believe crying helps?”

Jeeny: “Yes. It’s not weakness, Jack. It’s release. It’s your body doing what logic can’t.”

Jack: “Then why does it make people uncomfortable?”

Jeeny: “Because it reminds them of what they’ve buried.”

Host: The lamp light caught the edge of her tear-streaked face, and for a moment, the pain looked holy — not because it was beautiful, but because it was honest.

Jack: “You want to talk about it?”

Jeeny: “About what?”

Jack: “Whatever’s been sitting behind those tears for the last hour.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “I don’t even know where to start.”

Jack: “Start anywhere.”

Jeeny: “It’s not one thing. It’s everything — the noise, the expectations, the loneliness you can’t name because technically, you’re surrounded by people.”

Jack: “Yeah. The kind of loneliness that’s loud.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And then you look at everyone else pretending to be fine, and you think, ‘Maybe I’m the broken one.’”

Jack: “You’re not broken.”

Jeeny: “No. Just cracked. Enough to let the light in, I guess.”

Host: She smiled faintly — a small, raw thing, fragile as dawn. Jack stood and moved closer, sitting beside her on the couch. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward — it was necessary.

Jeeny: “You don’t have to fix it, you know. I just needed to say it out loud.”

Jack: “I know. I’m just here.”

Jeeny: “Good. Because that’s all anyone really needs — someone to sit beside the mess without trying to sweep it away.”

Jack: “That’s harder than it sounds.”

Jeeny: “Everything real is.”

Host: The two sat there, side by side, the faint sound of water dripping from the eaves above. Jack reached for the tissue box, passed it to her without a word. She took it, wiped her face, and laughed softly through what was left of her tears.

Jeeny: “See? Crying didn’t kill me.”

Jack: “No. You look more alive than you did an hour ago.”

Jeeny: “Because I stopped pretending I wasn’t hurting.”

Jack: “Guess that’s the lesson then — find someone to fall apart with.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because no one heals alone.”

Host: The clock ticked softly. The lamp glowed steady again. The rain had stopped completely, leaving the air washed and new.

Jeeny leaned her head on his shoulder. He didn’t move, didn’t speak — just stayed. The way people do when they finally understand that silence can be love too.

Host: Clarissa Pinkola Estés was right.
Healing isn’t heroic — it’s human.
It begins not in strength, but in surrender.
In the trembling honesty of one person saying, “I’m not okay,”
and another replying, “You don’t have to be. I’m here.”

And in that unremarkable, extraordinary moment —
when tears fall freely and words are no longer needed —
two people rediscover the oldest truth of all:

that the soul mends best
in the company of someone who listens,
and stays.