Writing a teen character is something I wanted to try again for

Host:
The evening air was drenched in the scent of rain-soaked asphalt and juniper smoke. A half-lit diner sign buzzed faintly above the roadside, its red letters flickering against the gathering twilight. Beyond it, the highway stretched endlessly — a ribbon of silver unraveling toward some nameless horizon.

Inside, the diner was nearly empty. Chrome counters gleamed beneath flickering fluorescent lights, and an old jukebox hummed faintly in the corner, whispering a song that seemed older than time.

Jack sat in a corner booth, his hands wrapped around a mug of coffee gone cold, his grey eyes lost somewhere between memory and imagination. Across from him, Jeeny toyed with a paper napkin, her brown eyes bright but faraway, the kind of look people get when they’re walking through the past without moving.

Host:
A single line of dialogue from Emily Giffin floated in the air between them, carried on the rhythm of the rain tapping gently on the windows:

"Writing a teen character is something I wanted to try again for a long time!"

The line lingered — innocent at first, almost simple. But in this place, with these two souls, simplicity was just the first mask truth wore.

Jeeny:
(smiling faintly)
You ever miss who you were at sixteen?

Jack:
(chuckles, low and rough)
Miss him? No. I can still hear him — that kid who thought the world owed him something. He’s still in there somewhere, throwing a fit every time life doesn’t go his way.

Jeeny:
Maybe that’s why we keep writing about them — those teenagers we once were. Not because we miss them, but because we’re still trying to forgive them.

Jack:
Or maybe we write them to warn them. To tell them how badly it all turns out.

Jeeny:
You don’t mean that.

Jack:
Don’t I? Every story about youth is just a story about loss wearing a pretty disguise. You start with hope, end with memory.

Host:
The rain hit harder now, like tiny drumbeats on the tin roof, and the old jukebox changed songs — a soft melody that felt like it belonged to someone’s forgotten summer.

Jeeny:
You sound like you’ve stopped believing in beginnings, Jack.

Jack:
I believe in them. I just don’t trust them.

Jeeny:
You used to write about first love, about restless hearts and open roads. You said once that writing teenagers was like bottling electricity — that every emotion was too big for its own body.

Jack:
(grinning faintly)
Yeah. Because that’s what it was. Everything felt like the end of the world — and somehow, that made it beautiful.

Jeeny:
Exactly. That’s what Giffin means, I think. Writing a teen character isn’t about nostalgia — it’s about remembering how to feel that much again.

Host:
The light flickered once, then steadied. The rain softened. Somewhere, a truck horn echoed from the highway, long and distant — like a voice calling to them from another version of themselves.

Jack:
You ever wonder if we write about teenagers because we can’t bear to admit how much we’ve changed?

Jeeny:
Maybe. Or because deep down, we haven’t changed at all. We just learned how to hide our chaos better.

Jack:
(laughs quietly)
You make it sound poetic.

Jeeny:
It is poetic. You and I, sitting here pretending to be adults — we’re just the same kids with bigger words and smaller dreams.

Jack:
(sighs)
God, that’s painfully accurate.

Host:
A waitress passed by, refilling their cups. The steam rose between them like fog, softening their edges, blending past and present into one tender blur.

Jeeny:
When I read Giffin’s quote, I thought — maybe that’s the secret of growing up. Learning how to tell your younger self’s story without judgment.

Jack:
But how do you do that? How do you write that kid honestly when you know how much he hurt people just trying to figure himself out?

Jeeny:
You tell the truth. Not as an apology — but as a witness.

Jack:
(slowly)
A witness…

Jeeny:
Yes. Someone who remembers, but doesn’t accuse. Someone who still believes that the version of you who was lost deserved a chance to be found.

Host:
Her words hit like a chord — not loud, but resonant. Something shifted behind Jack’s eyes — the kind of recognition that feels equal parts ache and relief.

Jack:
You know, I used to think writing was about control. Making sense of what didn’t make sense back then. But maybe it’s just about understanding — giving those old ghosts a voice, even if it trembles.

Jeeny:
(smiles gently)
Exactly. Because that trembling is what makes it real.

Host:
The clock above the counter ticked softly. Somewhere, the door creaked open and closed again, and a gust of wind carried in the scent of wet earth and highway miles.

For a moment, they were both quiet — lost in the same invisible place: the in-between where youth ends but never truly leaves.

Jeeny:
(whispering)
I still remember writing in my diary at fifteen — swearing I’d never become one of those adults who forgot what it felt like to be scared of growing up.

Jack:
And did you keep that promise?

Jeeny:
(pauses)
I think so. Or at least, I keep trying.

Jack:
Maybe that’s what matters — not that we stay young, but that we keep listening to the voices we used to be.

Host:
The rain slowed to a drizzle. The neon sign outside blinked once more, then held steady — casting the word “OPEN” across their faces in trembling red.

Jeeny:
You should write about it again. That feeling. That chaos. That beginning that doesn’t know it’s already halfway to an ending.

Jack:
(smiling)
You think there’s still a story left in it?

Jeeny:
There’s always a story left. Especially when it still hurts a little.

Host:
He nodded, slowly, like a man agreeing to meet an old friend he wasn’t sure he could face. He reached for his notebook, its cover worn and soft from years of silence, and opened it to a blank page.

His pen hovered. Then it touched down —
and the first line came like a sigh:

“He was seventeen and already tired of pretending.”

Jeeny smiled, her eyes glinting with that mix of pride and nostalgia that comes from watching someone find their way back to themselves.

Host:
Outside, the clouds broke, revealing the faint shimmer of stars scattered like secrets across the dark. The diner lights glowed warmer now, and the night exhaled, relieved.

And as the two of them sat in that small, timeless corner of the world, the truth of Emily Giffin’s words settled softly between them —

That writing a teen character isn’t just about revisiting youth.
It’s about returning to the moment we first learned how to feel,
how to fail,
how to begin again.

And in that rediscovery — trembling, imperfect, utterly human —
we find that the teenager we once were
wasn’t someone to escape from,
but someone to understand.