When you want to die, you at least have a goal. You're aiming for

Host: The night hung heavy over the city, a thick fog rolling like a tired ghost down the empty streets. A single streetlight flickered outside the window of an abandoned diner, its neon hum cutting through the silence like a wounded heartbeat. Inside, Jack sat at the counter, his hands wrapped around a cold cup of coffee, eyes like steel rain, reflecting the dim glow. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against the booth, her face half-lit by the dying light, half-lost in shadow.

The radio murmured faintly — a voice, haunting, metallic — Marilyn Manson, speaking words that lingered like a curse:
“When you want to die, you at least have a goal... you’re aiming for something.”

The words hung between them like a loaded gun.

Jeeny: “It’s a dark truth, isn’t it? The idea that even in despair, people still reach for something — even if it’s the end.”

Jack: “Maybe it’s not dark at all. Maybe it’s just... honest. When you’ve got nothing left, death becomes the only destination that makes sense. At least it gives you direction.”

Host: The rain began to tap against the window, gentle at first, then stronger, like a heartbeat returning after too long in silence. Jeeny’s eyes searched his face, her expression caught between pity and anger.

Jeeny: “You’re talking like that’s something to admire, Jack. Like wanting to die is an act of clarity instead of collapse.”

Jack: “No, I’m saying it’s a form of movement. You’ve seen people lost — not even wanting anything. That’s worse. When someone wants to die, at least they still feel something — fear, anger, pain — that’s more alive than the numbness most people drown in.”

Host: A lightning flash split the sky, its white glare spilling briefly into the diner, turning both of them into statues of confession.

Jeeny: “So that’s your answer? That pain is better than emptiness?”

Jack: “Sometimes, yes. Pain means there’s still a pulse. Look at Van Gogh — the man was falling apart, hearing voices, living in isolation. Yet, through all that torment, he painted the stars like they were his last way of screaming. You think his art came from peace?”

Jeeny: “It came from longing, not destruction. He didn’t paint because he wanted to die — he painted because he wanted to live despite wanting to die.”

Host: The steam from the coffee curled between them, a ghostly bridge, trembling, fragile.

Jack: “That’s the same thing, Jeeny. You don’t reach for life until you’ve stared long enough at death. That’s where the truth hides — on that edge.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe that’s just your excuse to stay there. You talk about the edge like it’s some sacred place. But people don’t live there, Jack — they fall.”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly, but her eyes stayed firm. Jack turned away, watching the rain snake down the glass like tears falling from an invisible sky.

Jack: “I’m not glorifying it. I’m just saying — when someone says they want to die, at least they’re feeling. That’s better than watching someone walk through life like a ghost, smiling for photographs while they’re dead inside.”

Jeeny: “You mean like the world we live in? Where everyone’s performing, curating their happiness?”

Jack: “Exactly. Synthetic joy, polished and hollow. I’d rather someone admit they want to die than pretend they’re fine.”

Host: The wind howled outside, carrying the faint scream of a distant siren. The city was alive in its own kind of misery. Inside, their voices clashed like flint and steel, each word sparking, each pause bleeding with unspoken history.

Jeeny: “But, Jack… if you believe that, where’s the hope? Isn’t the whole point of being alive to find meaning beyond suffering?”

Jack: “Hope’s a drug, Jeeny. And like any drug, it fades. Pain — at least — is real. It keeps you awake.”

Jeeny: “That’s not truth. That’s survival instinct twisted into philosophy. You’re saying it’s better to hurt than to heal.”

Jack: “I’m saying healing doesn’t start until you’ve hit the bottom. And most people never even get that far — they just float.”

Host: The rain softened now, becoming a soft murmur against the glass, like a lullaby for broken souls. Jeeny’s hands tightened around her cup, her knuckles pale.

Jeeny: “You think numbness is worse than death. But numbness can be temporary. Death — that’s final.”

Jack: “Finality is the only thing that gives life weight. We only feel urgency because we know we’ll die. That’s what Manson meant — even the wish to die shows the last spark of wanting something. A person who wants nothing is already gone.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the real tragedy isn’t death. It’s forgetting how to want to live.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked — each second a soft reminder of time slipping through unseen hands. Jack looked at her, the harshness in his eyes beginning to fracture.

Jack: “You talk like you’ve never felt that kind of emptiness.”

Jeeny: “Everyone has. I just don’t worship it.”

Jack: “You think I worship it? You think I like waking up every morning asking why I still bother?”

Jeeny: “No. I think you mistake your pain for proof of existence. You think suffering means you’re alive. But what if it’s the opposite — what if it’s keeping you from living?”

Host: Her voice cracked slightly — a note of fear in it, soft but sharp. The silence between them stretched, thick as the fog outside. Jack’s hands trembled slightly as he ran his fingers through his hair.

Jack: “So what would you rather, Jeeny? A world where no one feels pain, no one wants to die, but no one really wants anything either?”

Jeeny: “I’d rather a world where people fight to feel something good. Where they choose light — even when it hurts to see it.”

Host: The rain stopped. The city exhaled, leaving behind a quiet haze that clung to the windows. A single car passed by, its headlights brushing across their faces, illuminating the weariness in both.

Jack: “You talk like there’s always light waiting. But sometimes there isn’t. Sometimes the tunnel doesn’t end. People tell themselves it does, but it’s a lie.”

Jeeny: “Then we make the light ourselves. That’s what it means to be human. Even if it’s just a spark — that’s enough.”

Host: Her words fell like embers, faint but warm. Jack’s eyes softened — the first crack in his armor.

Jack: “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “I have to. Otherwise, I’d be exactly what you describe — alive, but already gone.”

Host: A long pause filled the diner. The neon sign outside flickered one last time, then died, leaving them in near darkness. Only the faint moonlight painted their faces — pale, tired, but strangely at peace.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe wanting to die isn’t the end. Maybe it’s just the body’s last way of saying — I still care.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The desire to die is a shadow of the desire to live. You just have to remember where the light is coming from.”

Host: For a long moment, neither spoke. The rainclouds outside began to break, and a faint silver glow bled through the sky, reflecting on the wet pavement like shattered glass slowly mending.

Jack finally smiled — a small, tired curve of the lips, but real. Jeeny returned it, her eyes glistening like new light after a long storm.

And for the first time that night, both felt something closer to hope — fragile, trembling, but undeniably alive.

The camera pulled back — two silhouettes in a dying diner, surrounded by the soft afterglow of rain — proof that even in the darkest wanting, there is still the echo of life.