Yep, I'm a geek. Ever since I got the Millennium Falcon for

Host: The night was warm and alive with the glow of countless screens — the hum of late-night conversations, the faint buzz of neon spilling over rain-slicked streets. Inside a cramped apartment, the walls were lined with shelves packed tight with figurines, comic books, and the occasional vintage spaceship — dusted carefully, displayed proudly.

A single lamp glowed on a cluttered workbench, illuminating the centerpiece of it all — an original Millennium Falcon, its edges worn but still radiant with childhood magic.

Jack sat on a worn leather couch, his hands clasped loosely, while Jeeny crouched near the table, inspecting the spaceship like an archaeologist discovering a relic of faith.

Jack: “You really keep this thing clean, huh?”

Jeeny: “It’s not a thing, Jack. It’s a piece of time.”

Jack: “A piece of plastic.”

Jeeny: “No. A piece of memory.”

Host: She smiled as she said it, her eyes reflecting the small LED lights that glowed from the Falcon’s cockpit.

Jeeny: “Joseph Gatt once said, ‘Yep, I’m a geek. Ever since I got the Millennium Falcon for Christmas in 1978. And I still have it, in perfect condition, just without the box… but I still play with it!’ That’s what this is, Jack — love that doesn’t grow old.”

Jack: “Or an obsession that never let go.”

Host: Jeeny laughed softly, her laughter like the rustle of wrapping paper — familiar, unguarded.

Jeeny: “You call it obsession. I call it loyalty.”

Jack: “Loyalty to what? To toys? To nostalgia?”

Jeeny: “To joy, Jack. To the part of you that didn’t need a reason to care about something.”

Host: The city light slipped through the blinds in thin lines, cutting the room into stripes of blue and gold. Dust floated through the air, slow as memories.

Jack: “You really think keeping an old toy means something?”

Jeeny: “I think it means he remembers who he was. That’s rare. Most people trade their wonder for practicality before they’re thirty.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s just growing up.”

Jeeny: “No. Growing up isn’t about losing wonder. It’s about learning how to protect it.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his eyes tracing the spaceship’s silhouette. The Falcon’s hull, slightly cracked, caught the lamplight like a scar turned badge.

Jack: “You sound like you’ve been saving pieces of your childhood too.”

Jeeny: “Of course I have. I still have my old Walkman. It doesn’t even work anymore, but it reminds me of how I felt the first time I heard a song that made me cry.”

Jack: “You really think that feeling’s worth keeping?”

Jeeny: “What else is?”

Host: The question hung there, gentle but sharp. The hum of a nearby computer fan filled the silence.

Jack: “You know, I used to have a model plane when I was a kid. Built it with my dad. He’d hold the pieces, I’d glue them together. We hung it over my bed for years. But when I left for college, I threw it away.”

Jeeny: “Why?”

Jack: “Because it felt childish. Because I wanted to be… serious.”

Jeeny: “And did you feel freer after?”

Jack: “No. Just emptier.”

Host: Jeeny smiled sadly. She reached out, touching the edge of the Falcon gently, like it were something sacred.

Jeeny: “That’s what people don’t get. These things — they’re not about escaping reality. They’re about remembering it’s okay to dream.”

Jack: “You make it sound like faith.”

Jeeny: “It is. Faith in imagination.”

Host: Jack watched her — the small figure in the half-light, surrounded by symbols of stories and galaxies far, far away. Her voice carried that old fire — quiet, unbreakable, like something that refused to age.

Jack: “You ever worry that nostalgia’s just a trap? That we cling to the past because the present can’t compete?”

Jeeny: “Only when we forget that nostalgia isn’t about the past. It’s about continuity. It’s the thread between who we were and who we still want to be.”

Jack: “So, what — we should all start collecting toys again?”

Jeeny: “No. But we should start collecting wonder.”

Host: Outside, thunder rumbled faintly — distant, comforting. The room pulsed with the faint glow of the ship’s light, casting star-shaped shadows across the walls.

Jack: “You know what I envy about people like Gatt?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “The courage to admit they still play. Adults pretend they’ve outgrown play — but half of what we do is pretending anyway.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The difference is, geeks know they’re pretending — and they find joy in it.”

Host: A faint grin tugged at Jack’s lips. His fingers tapped lightly on the armrest, as if drumming out an old rhythm he hadn’t played in years.

Jack: “You ever think the Millennium Falcon lasted longer than most people’s dreams?”

Jeeny: “Because it was built from them.”

Host: Her words softened the air. She picked up the ship and held it carefully in both hands, turning it as though searching for some hidden meaning in its scratches and decals.

Jeeny: “Gatt kept it in perfect condition, but he said he still plays with it. That’s the balance, Jack — care without fear, preservation without paralysis. He didn’t lock it away to stay perfect. He let it live.”

Jack: “That’s rare. Most people just preserve to remember. They don’t dare touch what they love anymore.”

Jeeny: “Because they’re afraid it’ll break. But sometimes, breaking is how something stays alive.”

Host: The rain began to fall — slow, rhythmic, against the windowpane. It filled the pauses between their breaths, soft and even.

Jack: “You know, I think I understand now. It’s not the Falcon that matters. It’s the fact he never stopped being the boy who opened that box in 1978.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The toy’s just a vessel. The real treasure is the continuity of self — the courage to stay a little ridiculous in a world obsessed with seriousness.”

Host: Jack smiled — not mockingly this time, but with a quiet warmth that reached his eyes.

Jack: “Maybe we all need our own Falcon — something that reminds us we’re still capable of play.”

Jeeny: “Or that we were once brave enough to love something simply because it made us happy.”

Host: The room fell into a comfortable silence. The hum of the world outside faded. All that remained was the soft glow of the ship’s cockpit and the faint smile on both their faces.

Jack: “You know, I used to laugh at people who called themselves geeks. Thought it meant they couldn’t let go. But maybe they’re the ones who never forgot how to hold on.”

Jeeny: “To joy. To stories. To magic. To the small things that built the big ones.”

Host: She set the Falcon gently back on the table. The tiny lights blinked once, as if in acknowledgment.

Jack: “You think we ever stop being the kids we were?”

Jeeny: “No. We just stop listening to them.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and whispered — half to himself, half to the ship:

Jack: “Then maybe it’s time to start listening again.”

Host: Jeeny smiled. Outside, the rain stopped, and the moon emerged through the clouds — pale and soft, like a light from another galaxy.

The Millennium Falcon sat between them, glowing faintly, like a bridge between worlds — between memory and moment, between child and adult, between past and becoming.

And in that small apartment, filled with the hum of nostalgia and quiet laughter, two people rediscovered something sacred — not in the machine, but in what it meant:
that wonder, when cared for, never really grows old.