A lot of women are afraid of loneliness, so when they see a woman

Host: The evening sky hung heavy over the city, its color somewhere between amber and smoke, the last sunlight bleeding through the edges of half-drawn curtains. A soft wind carried the scent of rain-soaked earth and burning incense from a nearby temple, curling through the narrow alleys like a memory refusing to fade.

In a tiny rooftop flat, Jack and Jeeny sat across from one another at a wooden table, lit only by the glow of a single candle. A pile of papers, an untouched bottle of wine, and two half-filled glasses lay between them — like the remnants of a conversation that had begun long before the night did.

Jeeny’s voice came quiet but certain, as though every word had been forged in her chest before finding its way out.

Jeeny: “Nawal El Saadawi once said — ‘A lot of women are afraid of loneliness, so when they see a woman who can live alone, they think, Hmm, I can do that. But you need an example, and that’s why I’m proud to say I’ve divorced three husbands.’”

Jack: “She said that like a battle cry.”

Jeeny: “It is a battle cry. Every woman who walks away from something that defines her by someone else — that’s revolution.”

Host: The candlelight flickered, casting Jeeny’s shadow on the wall — long, thin, alive, like the silhouette of a woman stepping away from a cage. Jack leaned forward, his grey eyes catching the light, searching, always questioning.

Jack: “You make it sound noble, Jeeny. But three divorces? Some would call that failure.”

Jeeny: “Only if you think endurance equals success. Staying can be cowardice, Jack. Leaving — that’s courage.”

Host: A distant thunder rumbled, the echo of it vibrating through the walls. The flame of the candle shivered, but did not go out.

Jack: “You know, I once met a woman like that — in Cairo, years ago. She told me she left her husband not because she didn’t love him, but because she realized she’d forgotten the sound of her own thoughts. She said silence in that house was like a second body — always breathing next to her, but never hers.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly it. Marriage, in so many places, becomes a quiet surrender. Society teaches women to mistake dependence for devotion. Nawal El Saadawi refused that lie. She lived her loneliness out loud.”

Host: Jeeny took a slow sip of wine, her lips trembling slightly before she spoke again, her eyes fixed not on Jack but on the window, where the rain had begun to fall — soft, steady, relentless.

Jeeny: “You know, I grew up watching my mother wait. For love, for understanding, for someone to let her speak. She wasn’t weak — she was trained to be silent. Every time she wanted to leave, people told her, ‘What will you do alone?’ As if solitude was death.”

Jack: “Maybe it is, for some. Not everyone’s built for it.”

Jeeny: “No one’s born built for it. You learn it. The first night you sleep in a quiet room after years of someone else’s breathing beside you, you learn it. Loneliness isn’t punishment — it’s purification.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, slapping against the windowpane, drowning out the hum of the city below. Jack lit another cigarette, the orange tip briefly illuminating his face. His voice came low, thoughtful.

Jack: “So what — you think independence can replace love?”

Jeeny: “No. But it can redefine it. Love should be a choice, not a sentence. And solitude — that’s the test. If you can love yourself in silence, you’ll never accept the kind of love that silences you.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his eyes narrowing as he watched the smoke curl upward. He spoke like a man wrestling with his own reflection.

Jack: “You talk like loneliness is liberation. But I’ve seen people break under it. Men and women. Some people don’t want to be examples, Jeeny — they just want to be held.”

Jeeny: “Wanting to be held doesn’t make you weak. Needing someone to exist does. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “And what about you? Could you live alone forever?”

Jeeny: “I already do. Even when I’m surrounded by people.”

Host: The candlelight wavered again, casting shifting patterns on her face — strength, weariness, grace, defiance — all changing within a single breath. She set down her glass, her fingers tapping gently against the table, as if marking time to an invisible rhythm.

Jeeny: “Loneliness isn’t the absence of company, Jack. It’s the absence of recognition. Nawal El Saadawi understood that. She didn’t just leave her husbands — she left a system that refused to see her. And when other women saw her walk away, they saw themselves reflected in her footsteps.”

Jack: “But why does it always have to come at such a cost? Freedom always seems to demand loss.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s real. Freedom without loss is fiction. It’s easy to say you’re free when you’ve never had to choose between peace and belonging.”

Host: A pause. The rain softened, the city lights outside now blurred, as if viewed through tears. A distant church bell rang, slow, solemn.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, when I was younger, I used to think the bravest people were the ones who stayed — the ones who made it work. But now… I’m not sure. Maybe the bravest are the ones who know when to walk away, even when everyone’s watching.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because when a woman leaves, the world calls her selfish. But when a man does, they call him free.”

Host: The words hung in the air — sharp, undeniable. Jack looked down, rubbing the back of his neck, his expression shifting between guilt and understanding.

Jack: “Maybe men are afraid of women like El Saadawi. Not because she left them, but because she didn’t need them to leave well.”

Jeeny: “Of course they are. A self-sufficient woman dismantles the mythology of masculinity. She says, ‘I can exist without orbiting anyone.’ That terrifies those who were raised to believe they were the sun.”

Host: The storm had passed now. The air was still, but thick with the aftertaste of rain and truth. The candle had almost burned out, its wax pooling, its flame small but persistent — a defiant heartbeat in the dim room.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… maybe every generation needs its example — someone who lives loudly enough to give others permission.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why El Saadawi said she was proud — not arrogant, proud. Every woman who leaves becomes a map. Not everyone will follow, but they’ll know it’s possible.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice softened, her eyes glimmering like wet coal in the faint light.

Jeeny: “Loneliness doesn’t kill, Jack. Silence does. Women need to see that solitude can be sanctuary — not exile.”

Jack: “And men?”

Jeeny: “Men need to see it too. Because the world won’t change until everyone understands that love isn’t ownership — it’s choice.”

Host: The candle finally flickered out, leaving them in darkness, but the window caught the faintest glow of a new moon. The rain had stopped, and the night air carried the scent of wet stone and freedom.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then, softly, Jack’s voice — quiet, but sincere.

Jack: “Maybe loneliness isn’t something to fear. Maybe it’s just… the sound of your own voice finally echoing back.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And once you’ve heard it — truly heard it — you’ll never let anyone silence it again.”

Host: The moonlight spilled across the table, catching the rings left by their glasses, two imperfect circles, intersecting slightly — separate, but still touching.

And as the city below slowly drifted toward sleep, the silence in the room was no longer empty, but alive — a kind of quiet victory, the kind that belongs to those who finally learn that being alone does not mean being less.