☆ joe keery x younger!reader ☆
hi !! this is literally the longest one shot i’ve ever written in my life, so please be nice 😭 english isn’t my first language and i’m still learning, so sorry if there are mistakes or weird sentences <3 requests are open btw ! also, this will probably have a part 2 because i got way too attached to this idea and there’s still so much more i want to write about them.
summary: months after a surprisingly honest podcast interview, joe finds himself thinking about the conversation more often than he’d like to admit. when he’s invited back for a second episode, both of them quickly realize that some connections don’t disappear just because time passes.
warnings: fluff, emotional conversations, mentions of heartbreak and past relationships, lots of talking, mutual pining if you squint, age gap but no mention of it, no use of y/n
The podcast studio was hidden on the third floor of an old building in Manhattan, right above a tiny independent bookstore that always smelled like paper, rain, and coffee, even when the weather outside was perfectly clear.
From the street, nobody would have guessed that actors, musicians, directors, writers, and people with names that appeared in magazine headlines every few weeks walked through the narrow side door and climbed those creaky stairs to sit for two hours on a couch and talk about their lives like normal people.
There was no giant sign outside, no flashy neon logo, no crowd of paparazzi waiting by the curb, only a black buzzer with the name of the podcast written on a small silver label that looked like it had been made by someone’s friend rather than by a marketing team.
Inside, the studio felt less like a studio and more like the kind of apartment people in movies always seemed to have in New York, the kind with exposed brick walls, tall windows with thin white curtains, floor lamps glowing in the corners, and shelves full of books that looked actually read instead of placed there just to make the room seem interesting.
There were framed photographs on the wall from past guests, old vinyl records leaning beside a turntable, a few candles that were probably there more for atmosphere than anything else, and two enormous couches facing each other across a low wooden table covered with mugs, water bottles, scribbled notes, and a small bowl of chocolates that had clearly been opened before Joe even arrived.
The couches were the first thing he noticed, mostly because they did not look like interview furniture at all.
They were soft, deep, cream-colored, and slightly oversized, with knitted blankets thrown over the back and pillows that looked too comfortable to be decorative, the kind of couch that made people sit differently without realizing it.
Joe had done enough press to recognize when a place was designed to make somebody perform, but this room seemed designed to make somebody relax, which somehow made him more uncomfortable at first, because relaxing on camera was much harder than pretending.
He had arrived wearing a dark jacket over a plain shirt, his hair a little messy from the wind outside, his hands tucked into his pockets as he followed one of the producers into the room.
He was polite, of course, smiling at the sound engineer, thanking the assistant who offered him water, making the usual small talk in that soft, slightly careful voice people used when they were still figuring out what kind of room they had walked into.
He had done this enough times to know exactly how to act in the first five minutes, before the microphones were turned on and before anybody could decide whether he was nervous, guarded, tired, funny, quiet, or just trying to be nice.
Then you looked up from the couch.
You were sitting with one leg tucked beneath you, a notebook balanced against your knee, headphones resting around your neck, and a mug held between both hands like you had been using it to warm your fingers.
You were not dressed like somebody trying to prove she belonged in a room with famous people, which was probably the first thing that made him feel less watched.
Your sweater was slightly too big, your hair had that soft, lived-in look that came from touching it too much while thinking, and your expression changed the second you saw him, not into shock or performance or fake industry excitement, but into something warm and immediate.
“Hi, Joe,” you said, standing up from the couch with a smile that reached your eyes before it reached your voice. “I’m really happy you came.”
There was something about the way you said it that made him believe you meant it, not because he was famous, not because his name would make the episode perform better, but because you seemed like the kind of person who genuinely liked conversations. He shook your hand, and for some reason the gesture felt more natural than most greetings he had done that week.
“Thank you for having me,” he said, smiling back as he sat down on the couch across from you.
You laughed softly when he sank a little too far into the cushions and had to adjust himself, and instead of making him feel embarrassed, it made the room feel less formal, like the first awkward moment had already happened and nothing terrible came from it.
“I probably should’ve warned you that the couch is dangerously comfortable,” you said, setting your mug down on the table. “People come here thinking they’re going to give a polished interview and then forty minutes later they’re fully leaning into a pillow and telling me about their childhood pets.”
Joe laughed, glancing down at the couch as he settled into it. “That’s smart. You trap people with furniture.”
“Exactly. Journalism is mostly furniture and emotional manipulation.”
“It is, but in a cozy way.”
He laughed again, and this time it was not the polite little laugh people gave on talk shows when they were waiting for the next question.
It came out of him naturally, maybe because your timing was good, maybe because the room was warm, maybe because nobody around him looked like they were waiting for him to say something useful for a headline.
The producer behind the camera adjusted a final setting, the sound engineer checked the microphones, and while everyone moved quietly around them, you leaned slightly closer as if the recording had already begun.
“Before we start, just so you know, we don’t do gotcha questions here,” you said, your voice lower now, meant only for him even though nobody in the room was pretending not to listen. “We can talk about anything you’re comfortable talking about, and if there’s something you don’t want to answer, we’ll just move on. I care way more about an actual conversation than a viral clip.”
Joe looked at you for a second, and the relief that crossed his face was small but real.
“I appreciate that,” he said.
Because there were things people wanted from him now, things they tried to pull out of him with casual smiles and soft voices, acting like they were just curious when really they were building a headline in their head.
He knew how to handle it, and he knew it came with the job, but that did not mean it stopped feeling strange to have strangers ask about parts of his life that still felt too human to package into content.
When the red recording light finally turned on, you did not change your voice into something bigger or brighter. You did not suddenly become a host performing for an invisible audience. You simply smiled, adjusted your headphones, and looked at him like he was still the same person he had been thirty seconds earlier.
“Welcome back to the show,” you began, your voice warm and steady. “Today I’m sitting here in the studio with Joe Keery, who you might know from Stranger Things, Fargo, his music as Djo, or from the fact that the internet has collectively decided he has one of the most recognizable heads of hair in modern pop culture.”
Joe immediately covered part of his face with one hand, laughing. “That’s a strong opening.”
“I’m sorry, but I had to get it out of the way early.”
“Right, because legally you have to mention the hair.”
“I do. Netflix actually sends someone to my house if I don’t.”
“It is. Very serious contract.”
The first part of the episode moved with surprising ease. You talked about Chicago, about growing up around music, about how strange it was to have a creative life that split into different versions of yourself depending on what people knew you from.
Joe talked about acting in a thoughtful, unpolished way, not like somebody reciting the same answer he had given in three other interviews that week, but like someone actually thinking through the question while answering it.
He told stories about being young and wanting to make things without knowing exactly what that meant yet, about the awkwardness of early auditions, about the bizarre experience of having a character become bigger than anything he could have imagined.
You did not interrupt him when he paused.
That was one of the first things he noticed once the conversation settled.
Most people were afraid of pauses, especially in interviews, as if silence meant failure or boredom or dead air that had to be rescued immediately.
You nodded, held eye contact, waited, and somehow the waiting never felt empty. It felt like permission.
Around twenty minutes in, the conversation drifted toward music, and Joe’s posture changed almost immediately.
He leaned back into the couch, one arm resting along the cushion, his fingers tapping lightly against the fabric while he tried to explain the difference between making something alone and presenting it to people after it had already lived privately in his head for so long.
You listened with your chin resting against your hand, occasionally smiling when he got animated, occasionally jumping in with a joke that made him lose his train of thought in the best way.
“I feel like music is weird because it’s very personal, but then once it’s out, it’s not yours in the same way anymore,” you said. “Like people take it and attach it to their own heartbreaks, their own bus rides, their own little dramatic main-character moments while walking down the street.”
Joe laughed, pointing at you slightly. “That’s actually a very good way of putting it.”
“Thank you. I do specialize in dramatic bus rides.”
“Yeah, you have that energy.”
You gasped, pretending to be offended, but the smile on your face ruined it immediately. “I don’t know if that’s a compliment.”
By the time the first hour passed, Joe had stopped sitting like a guest trying to behave properly and had fully given in to the couch. His jacket was off now, folded beside him, his sleeves pushed up slightly, one hand wrapped around the mug of tea someone had brought him during a short break. You had kicked your shoes off beneath your side of the table without making a big deal out of it, and the whole thing had begun to feel less like an interview and more like two people talking in a living room while a few cameras happened to be present.
Then, slowly, the conversation began to shift.
It did not happen because you forced it. There was no sudden dramatic question, no heavy pause, no careful lowering of your voice designed to signal that the serious portion had begun.
You had been talking about Fargo, about the coldness of the setting, about isolation, about how some projects seemed to arrive in people’s lives at strange times, and Joe had been explaining how work sometimes gave structure to moments that otherwise felt impossible to organize.
“I read something you said once,” you began carefully, not looking down at your notes yet, “about going through a big breakup around the time you were working on Fargo, and how that whole period felt pretty lonely for you.”
Joe’s eyes flicked down to his mug, but he did not close off immediately. Maybe it was because you said it gently. Maybe it was because you did not say Maika’s name like bait. Maybe it was because you gave him space to decide whether he wanted to go there instead of dragging him there.
“Yeah,” he said after a moment. “Yeah, that was a really strange time.”
You nodded, your expression soft but not pitying. “I don’t want to ask you anything invasive, and I’m not interested in turning somebody’s private life into gossip, but I do think a lot of people understand that feeling of trying to keep functioning while something in your life is ending.”
Joe looked at you then, really looked at you, and something about his expression changed. It was not dramatic, not enough that a casual viewer would catch it, but you saw the shift. His shoulders dropped a little, his face softened, and the carefulness in his eyes became something closer to trust.
“That’s exactly what it felt like,” he said. “It was like, okay, this thing happened, and life doesn’t stop. Work doesn’t stop. You still have to show up, you still have to be a person, you still have to get on a plane and go somewhere and do your job.”
“And everyone around you kind of sees the version of you that’s functioning,” you said. “So they assume you’re fine.”
“Right,” he replied, nodding slowly. “And sometimes you are fine for a little while. Or you’re fine enough. Then you go back to your hotel room or your apartment or wherever you’re staying, and suddenly it’s very quiet.”
The studio became still in that way rooms became still when everyone understood they were hearing something honest. Nobody moved toward the cameras, nobody interrupted, nobody tried to make it more dramatic than it already was. You simply sat there across from him, listening, your fingers curled around your mug.
“I think people imagine heartbreak as this very cinematic thing,” you said. “Like crying in the rain, deleting photos, some big dramatic scene where everything breaks at once. But most of the time it’s weirdly boring, which somehow makes it worse. You’re just brushing your teeth or ordering food or standing in an elevator, and suddenly you remember that your life is different now.”
Joe let out a quiet laugh, but it was not because what you said was funny.
It was because it was true.
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s really true.”
“And then there’s this extra layer when other people think they know what happened,” you continued, choosing every word carefully. “Because from the outside, people create a whole story, and meanwhile the actual people involved are probably just trying to be respectful and survive the sadness without having strangers dissect it.”
Joe was quiet for a second, his thumb moving over the side of the mug.
“I think that’s the part that’s hard to explain,” he said eventually. “When something is private to you, but public enough that people feel like they’re allowed to have opinions about it.”
“Because it belongs to you emotionally, but not socially.”
His eyes lifted to yours.
“That’s a really good way to put it.”
You smiled faintly, but you did not make the moment about yourself. “I think that must be a very specific kind of lonely.”
“It is,” he said, and the honesty in his voice made the words feel heavier than they looked. “It really is.”
For a while, he spoke slowly, not giving details that were not his to give, not explaining reasons, not turning the relationship into a story for strangers, but talking instead about the shape of grief after something meaningful ended.
He talked about how strange it was to miss a version of your life that no longer existed, how difficult it could be to accept that something could have mattered deeply and still not continue forever, how the end of a relationship did not always need a villain for it to hurt.
You did not ask why they broke up.
You did not ask who ended it.
You did not ask if they still talked.
You did not ask anything that would have made the room feel smaller in the wrong way.
Instead, you asked, “Do you think that experience changed the way you understand love, or did it change the way you understand yourself?”
Joe breathed out slowly, almost smiling because the question seemed to catch him off guard.
“That’s a good question,” he said, buying himself time.
“You do,” he said, smiling now. “It’s annoying.”
He leaned back slightly, looking toward the window where the afternoon light had begun to fade into something softer and more blue. Outside, New York moved the way it always did, taxis gliding through the street below, people crossing sidewalks with coffee cups and tote bags, sirens somewhere far away, the city continuing to exist without caring that inside this room somebody was trying to put old hurt into words.
“I think it made me realize that love isn’t only measured by whether something lasts forever,” he said finally. “Which sounds obvious, but it doesn’t feel obvious when you’re in it. I think when you’re younger, you kind of imagine that if something ends, then maybe it wasn’t what you thought it was, or maybe you failed in some way. But I don’t think that’s true. I think something can be real, and important, and still end.”
You watched him with such quiet understanding that, for a moment, Joe forgot about the microphones between you.
“I think that’s one of the most mature things someone can realize,” you said. “And also one of the most painful.”
“Yeah,” he said softly. “Exactly.”
The conversation moved from there into loneliness, and then into work, and then into the strange discipline of having to keep creating while privately feeling emptied out.
Joe talked about Fargo, about the way being in a cold place for a role while feeling emotionally isolated in his actual life created this strange overlap, like the outside world had started reflecting something internal.
You asked about whether acting helped him process things or simply distracted him, and he admitted that sometimes it was both, that sometimes disappearing into a character was useful until the day ended and he had to come back to himself.
It would have been easy for the episode to become heavy, but you had a way of bringing air back into the room without ruining the honesty of what had just been said. You made a joke at exactly the right time, not to avoid the emotion, but to remind him that he did not have to stay inside it forever.
“So basically what I’m hearing,” you said, glancing at your notes with mock seriousness, “is that heartbreak plus freezing weather plus a psychologically intense role is maybe not the wellness retreat people should be signing up for.”
Joe laughed, rubbing a hand over his face. “No, I wouldn’t recommend it.”
“Noted. I’ll cancel my brochure.”
“Shame. I already had a title. Emotional Damage: North Dakota Edition.”
He laughed harder at that, the sound loosening something in the room, and you grinned because making people laugh after they had been vulnerable felt like offering them a blanket without making a show of it. Joe seemed to understand that. He seemed to understand you.
By the second hour, he was no longer answering like a person being interviewed. He was responding like someone in a conversation he actually wanted to continue. He asked you questions back, which guests sometimes did politely, but this was different.
He asked how you started the podcast, whether you had always been comfortable talking to people, whether it ever felt strange to hold other people’s stories for a living. You seemed surprised at first, then amused, then touched in a way you tried to hide by making a joke.
“Careful,” you said. “If you ask me too many questions, this becomes my therapy session and your team will invoice me.”
“It’s not. I don’t have Joe Keery therapy money.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “I don’t know what that means, but okay.”
“It means I would pay in emotional support chocolate from that bowl.”
“That’s the currency here?”
“Yes, and unfortunately you’ve already eaten half the economy.”
He looked at the wrappers near his mug and laughed because you were right.
There was an ease between you now that had not existed when he arrived, something small but undeniable, the kind of warmth that built when two people realized they could be sincere and still funny together.
He liked that you did not treat sadness like something embarrassing. He liked that you could talk about heartbreak without making it feel like tragedy porn. He liked that you noticed when his answers became too careful and gently moved the conversation somewhere safer without making him feel cowardly for needing that.
And you, though you were trying very hard to stay professional, could tell he had relaxed in a way guests rarely did unless they felt safe.
His voice had gotten softer.
He had started looking around the room like he was part of it instead of visiting it.
Every now and then, while you were speaking, he would tilt his head slightly and listen with the same focus you had given him, and it made you nervous in a way you were not expecting, because famous people were much easier to interview when they behaved like famous people.
Not once he felt comfortable.
Near the end of the episode, you asked him about tenderness, because the word had come up earlier when he was talking about music, and because you had been curious ever since.
“I feel like a lot of your work, even when it’s funny or strange or chaotic, has this tenderness underneath it,” you said. “Do you think that’s something you look for on purpose, or is that just how you see the world?”
Joe stared at you for a moment, then laughed under his breath. “You ask very dangerous questions.”
“I know. The couch is only phase one.”
“Right. Furniture, then emotional ambush.”
He smiled, but then he actually thought about it, looking down at his hands before answering.
“I think I’m drawn to people who are trying,” he said. “Characters, songs, friends, whatever. I like when you can feel someone trying to be good, or trying to understand themselves, even if they’re failing at it a little bit.”
“It is,” you said. “I think most people are failing at being themselves a little bit.”
Joe smiled at that, a slow, almost private smile that made the producer glance between the two of you like she had noticed the atmosphere change but had decided not to interfere.
“That’s probably true,” he said.
“It’s comforting, though.”
“Because it means nobody has the whole thing figured out,” you said, leaning back into your couch. “Even the people who look like they do are usually just better at lighting, posture, and pretending they’re not spiraling.”
He laughed, pointing at you again. “That’s the title of the episode.”
“Lighting, Posture, and Pretending You’re Not Spiraling?”
“I hate that it’s actually good.”
You both laughed, and for a few seconds, the podcast disappeared again.
By the time the producer signaled that you were approaching the two-hour mark, Joe felt a strange disappointment settle in his chest.
It surprised him because interviews usually left him feeling relieved when they ended, not because he hated them, but because being perceived for that long was exhausting.
He had not felt drained in the usual way. He felt tired, yes, but also lighter, like the conversation had taken something heavy from him without stealing it.
“Okay,” you said reluctantly, glancing toward the camera. “We are very sadly near the end, even though I feel like I could keep asking questions for another three hours.”
Joe smiled. “I think I could keep answering.”
“That’s dangerous to say here.”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear it for your safety.”
You looked down at your notes, but for the first time in the whole interview, you seemed unsure of which question to choose. There were several left, written in the margins in your messy handwriting, but none of them felt quite right after everything you had talked about. So you closed the notebook instead.
“For the last question,” you said, looking back at him, “I’m not going to ask anything complicated.”
You smiled too, but your voice softened. “What do you hope this next version of your life feels like?”
Joe blinked, clearly not expecting that.
The room went quiet again, but it was a comfortable quiet now, the kind that had been built carefully over two hours. He looked toward the window, then at the table, then back at you. His face was thoughtful, open in a way that made him seem younger and older at the same time.
“I think…” he began slowly, “I hope it feels honest.”
“I hope it feels less like trying to control what everything looks like from the outside,” he continued, “and more like actually being present in it. I think I want things to feel real, whatever that means. Friendships, work, music, love, all of it. I just want it to feel real.”
You were quiet for a moment after he finished, not because you had nothing to say, but because you knew when an answer needed space around it.
“I hope you get that,” you said finally.
Joe looked at you, and the sincerity of it seemed to catch him more than the question had.
The producer ended the recording a few moments later, the red light turning off with a small click that suddenly made the whole room feel too quiet.
For a second, nobody moved.
The spell of the conversation lingered in the air, soft and strange, like everyone had been holding their breath without noticing. Then the sound engineer took off his headphones, the producer smiled and said it had been beautiful, and the room slowly returned to itself.
You pulled your headphones down around your neck and let out a breath, laughing a little as if you were only now realizing how emotional the episode had become.
“Well,” you said, looking at Joe from across the table. “That was not the light celebrity gossip episode I told myself I was going to do.”
Joe laughed, still seated comfortably on the couch, his mug empty beside him. “No, I guess not.”
“Don’t be,” he said quickly, and the speed of his answer made you look at him. “It was really nice.”
Your expression softened. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he said. “It was. You’re very easy to talk to.”
For once, you did not have a joke ready immediately.
“Thank you,” you said after a second, and your voice was quieter than it had been on the podcast. “That means a lot.”
He stood only when one of his team members gently reminded him of the next thing on his schedule, and even then, he seemed reluctant in a way that made you feel both flattered and oddly protective.
He put his jacket back on, thanked everyone in the room, shook hands with the producer, smiled at the sound engineer, and then turned back to you by the doorway.
“I’d love to come back sometime,” he said.
You smiled, leaning against the arm of the couch. “You’re saying that after I emotionally ambushed you for two hours?”
You laughed, but there was warmth behind it. “Then yeah. Come back anytime.”
He nodded, his hand resting briefly on the doorframe as if he wanted to say something else and was still deciding whether he should. In the end, he simply smiled, smaller and more genuine than the kind people photographed on red carpets.
“Thanks for making it feel normal,” he said.
And before you could answer properly, he was gone, stepping back into the hallway with his team, leaving the warm studio behind him and carrying the strange softness of the conversation into the cold New York evening.
You stood there for a moment after the door closed, staring at the spot where he had been, your mug cooling on the table behind you and your notebook still unopened on the couch. Then your producer looked at you with raised eyebrows, the kind of look that said she had absolutely noticed everything.
“What?” you asked, trying to sound normal.
And Joe, halfway down the stairs, knew it was not nothing either.
Not in the way people online would immediately try to turn into something bigger than it was.
It was just that sometimes, without expecting it, a person could walk into a room full of microphones and leave feeling a little less alone than they had when they entered.
And for now, that was enough.
The thing Joe hadn’t expected was how stubbornly the conversation stayed with him after it was over.
Normally, interviews disappeared from his mind almost as quickly as they happened, blending together into a long, indistinguishable collection of microphones, cameras, green rooms, hotel conference spaces, and carefully rehearsed questions that all seemed to orbit around the same handful of topics.
Most of the time he could leave a studio, get into a car, answer a few emails, maybe stop for coffee on the way to whatever came next, and by the end of the day he would barely remember what had been discussed.
Interviews were work, and work had a way of folding into itself until individual moments became difficult to separate from one another.
By the time he was sitting in the backseat of the SUV waiting outside the building, Manhattan was beginning to glow with that particular kind of evening light that made the city look softer than it really was.
Rain from earlier that afternoon still lingered in shallow puddles along the sidewalks, turning every traffic light and storefront window into blurred reflections of red, gold, and white.
People hurried past carrying shopping bags and coffee cups, taxis crawled through traffic below, and somewhere in the distance a siren echoed between buildings, but Joe barely noticed any of it.
His manager was sitting across from him talking about schedules for the following week, mentioning meetings, flights, appearances, and deadlines, yet every few minutes he found his attention slipping away from the conversation and drifting back toward the studio above the bookstore.
It wasn’t even the heavier parts of the interview that kept resurfacing in his mind. If anything, it was the smaller moments that refused to leave him alone.
The way you’d laughed when he’d accidentally emptied half the chocolate bowl without realizing it.
The way you’d tucked one leg beneath yourself on the couch sometime during the first hour and completely forgotten about it.
The way you’d never interrupted him when he paused to think, even when the silence stretched longer than most interviewers would have tolerated.
There had been something unusually calming about talking to somebody who wasn’t constantly trying to steer the conversation toward a headline, somebody who seemed more interested in understanding an answer than extracting one.
His manager’s voice pulled him back into the present.
“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said for the last thirty seconds.”
He blinked before letting out a small laugh.
His manager narrowed her eyes in amusement.
“You’re thinking about something.”
Joe looked out the window again, pretending that the passing buildings were suddenly fascinating. His manager knew him too well for his own good, which unfortunately meant she also knew exactly what he looked like when something was occupying more space in his head than he wanted to admit.
The rest of the evening passed normally enough. He went home, answered messages, ordered food, spent an hour trying to work on something musical before giving up halfway through, and eventually settled onto his couch with a television show playing quietly in the background.
The problem was that every time his attention drifted, it drifted back toward the same place. He kept remembering details about the conversation that had seemed insignificant at the time but somehow felt important now, little moments that shouldn’t have mattered as much as they did.
It wasn’t romantic. At least, he didn’t think it was.
The internet loved turning every interaction between two people into a love story, and Joe had spent enough years existing online to know how ridiculous that could become. This wasn’t that.
It was simply the rare experience of meeting someone who felt easy to talk to. Someone who didn’t seem impressed by fame but also wasn’t trying to prove they weren’t impressed by fame. Someone who treated him like a person first and a guest second.
The older he got, the more he realized how uncommon that actually was.
A little over a week later, the episode was released.
Joe had completely forgotten the exact date until his phone started vibrating nonstop early that morning. Notifications appeared faster than he could read them, messages from friends mixed with mentions online, clips being reposted, comments being shared, and texts arriving from people he hadn’t spoken to in months. He stared at the screen for a moment before opening the first message, which happened to be from his sister.
you look suspiciously happy in this interview
Joe immediately rolled his eyes.
His reply was sent less than ten seconds later.
What does that even mean?
The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.
You know exactly what it means.
You’re smiling the entire time.
That’s because it’s a podcast.
That doesn’t make any sense.
Neither does your face in this interview.
Joe dropped his phone onto the couch beside him and rubbed both hands over his face, already regretting opening the conversation. Unfortunately, his sister wasn’t done. A few seconds later she sent a clip from the episode, forcing him to watch something he normally avoided at all costs: himself.
The video showed a moment during the second hour of the conversation. You were talking about loneliness and the strange way people tried to keep functioning after significant changes in their lives, and he was listening rather than speaking. That was it. Nothing dramatic. Nothing scandalous. Yet as he watched the clip, he immediately understood why she’d sent it.
Not interview comfortable.
The realization was slightly embarrassing.
Because he knew exactly how rare that was.
Most interviews required a certain level of awareness, a constant understanding that every answer might become a headline and every expression might become a screenshot. Watching the episode back, he realized that awareness had disappeared somewhere during the conversation. He wasn’t calculating his responses. He wasn’t performing. He wasn’t trying to control how he came across.
His sister’s next message arrived before he could think of a comeback.
Joe laughed despite himself.
The entire exchange would have been easier to ignore if everyone else hadn’t apparently noticed the same thing. Friends texted him saying it was one of the most relaxed interviews they’d seen him do in years.
A musician he’d worked with sent him a screenshot and asked whether he’d secretly known the host beforehand because the conversation felt unusually natural.
Even people online seemed more interested in discussing the atmosphere of the episode than any specific answer he’d given, which was surprising considering how often internet conversations revolved around dissecting individual quotes.
The truth was that they weren’t entirely wrong.
There had been something different about it.
Not because of romance or attraction or any of the dramatic conclusions strangers loved jumping toward, but because genuine connection was visible when it happened. Most people spent their lives talking without really feeling heard, and for two hours he’d felt heard.
That alone was enough to make the episode memorable.
The following months slipped by the way months always seemed to in his life, dissolving into a blur of airports, recording studios, press appearances, hotel rooms, late-night writing sessions, and mornings spent waking up in unfamiliar cities.
Some weeks moved so quickly that he barely remembered them afterward, while others stretched endlessly beneath deadlines and obligations, yet every few minutes he found his attention slipping away from the conversation and drifting back toward the studio above the bookstore.
Sometimes it was a clip somebody reposted online.
Sometimes it was a quote from the interview showing up on his feed.
Sometimes it was a friend bringing it up in conversation.
Whatever form it took, he always reacted the same way.
Not because he enjoyed watching himself.
He smiled because seeing those clips reminded him of the feeling he’d had while sitting on that couch. The warm lighting. The shelves overflowing with books. The rain against the windows. The comfort of talking without feeling like every sentence needed to justify its existence.
It was strange how certain memories attached themselves to places.
One afternoon, several months later, he was sitting in a meeting discussing upcoming projects when his publicist walked into the room carrying a tablet.
There was a look on her face that immediately made him suspicious, the same look she got whenever she knew something he didn’t.
“That never starts well.”
She ignored him completely.
“You remember that podcast you did earlier this year?”
Joe already knew which one she meant.
“The host invited you back.”
For a moment he simply stared at her.
The reaction was small, almost invisible, but it happened before he could stop it. Something softened across his face, something quick enough that he might have convinced himself it wasn’t there if his publicist hadn’t immediately started smiling.
“That’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told me.”
Joe reached for the nearest pen and tossed it toward her. She dodged it easily, still laughing, which only made the situation worse.
The embarrassing part was that he already knew his answer.
He hadn’t asked about scheduling.
He hadn’t asked about timing.
He hadn’t asked whether he was available.
The answer had appeared in his head the second she’d finished speaking.
Because somewhere between the bookshelves, the oversized couches, the mugs of tea, the city lights beyond the windows, and a conversation that had somehow felt more human than most interviews ever did, he’d found something he hadn’t realized he missed.
A place where he could simply talk.
And, if he was being completely honest with himself, a person he’d been quietly hoping to see again.
thank you so much for reading !! i genuinely hope you liked this because i had so much fun writing it <3 please send requests because i literally have no ideas left and my inbox is empty 😭 you can request anything you want, or just come talk to me if you want !! part 2 is probably coming soon.
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