Anger and jealousy can no more bear to lose sight of their

Host: The night was thick with fog and the distant hum of the city—a slow pulse of headlights and horns moving through a sleeping heart. A narrow alleyway café, tucked between two forgotten buildings, glowed with amber light. Inside, the air smelled of burnt espresso, wet pavement, and quiet heartbreak.

Jack sat in the far booth, his hands clasped, his grey eyes heavy with thought. His jacket hung loosely, his collar unbuttoned, as though he’d given up the fight with formality long ago. Across from him, Jeeny sat curled against the seat, her long black hair cascading like spilled ink against her coat. A small candle flickered between them, its flame swaying, like a pulse caught between calm and confession.

Host: The hour was late, but neither of them moved to leave. Some conversations arrive too heavy for daylight.

Jeeny: (softly) “George Eliot once wrote, ‘Anger and jealousy can no more bear to lose sight of their objects than love.’”

Jack: (lets out a quiet, humorless laugh) “Yeah. The holy trinity of obsession.”

Jeeny: “Obsession or attachment?”

Jack: “Same difference. Either way, you’re chained to something—or someone—that doesn’t even notice half the time.”

Host: A draft slipped through the cracks in the window. The candle flame trembled. Somewhere outside, a car door slammed, the sound echoing down the street like a memory that refuses to fade.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve lived that line.”

Jack: “Haven’t you?”

Jeeny: “We all have. But some of us call it love. You call it a trap.”

Jack: “That’s because it is. Anger, jealousy, love—they’re just three versions of the same fever. They all make you stare too long at the same damn thing.”

Jeeny: “So you’d rather look away?”

Jack: “If I could.”

Host: He said it quietly, but the words carried, their weight pressing into the silence. Jeeny studied him—the twitch in his jaw, the way his hands flexed as though trying to hold on to something invisible.

Jeeny: “Who is she?”

Jack: (pauses, then smiles without joy) “No one you’d know.”

Jeeny: “You say that like it’s supposed to hide the hurt.”

Jack: “No, it’s supposed to end the interrogation.”

Jeeny: “You’re angry.”

Jack: “I’m not angry.”

Jeeny: “You’re angry at her for moving on. And at yourself for still watching.”

Host: His eyes flicked to the window—beyond the fogged glass, the streetlights blurred into streaks of color. He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Jeeny: “That’s what Eliot meant, Jack. Anger, jealousy, love—they all need an audience. They die in silence. They need to see their reflection to feel alive.”

Jack: (leans forward) “Then what? We’re all just mirrors? Feeding each other’s madness?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. But sometimes we’re the only witnesses to it.”

Host: The rain began, slow and tentative, tapping against the glass like a hesitant confession. The sound filled the space where words no longer dared to go.

Jack: “You know what I think? Love is just jealousy with good manners.”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “And jealousy is love that’s afraid of dying.”

Jack: “Then anger’s what—love that’s found out the truth?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The moment love realizes it can’t control what it adores.”

Host: Jack’s face tightened, his jawline sharp under the dim light. He reached for his cup, took a long sip, though the coffee had long since gone cold.

Jack: “Control. That’s the word. We all dress it up in poetry, but that’s all love ever wants—control. To hold, to keep, to belong.”

Jeeny: “And yet we call it freedom.”

Jack: “Because the lie’s prettier.”

Jeeny: “So you’d rather feel nothing?”

Jack: “If it meant peace—yeah.”

Jeeny: “Peace is overrated. You don’t remember peace. You remember passion.”

Host: Her voice softened, but her eyes flared—brown turned almost black under the candlelight. Jack’s gaze met hers, and something shifted, slow and dangerous.

Jack: “And what if passion’s just war with better lighting?”

Jeeny: “Then at least it’s honest. Peace can be a graveyard for feeling.”

Jack: “You think pain’s a virtue?”

Jeeny: “No. But it’s proof you’ve lived.”

Host: The wind howled outside, rattling the door. For a moment, it sounded like laughter—or grief. Jeeny’s fingers traced the rim of her cup, her thoughts somewhere else, somewhere far and tender.

Jeeny: “You know, I once loved someone who couldn’t stop watching me. Even after he left, I could feel his eyes—everywhere. Anger, jealousy, guilt—it all looked the same on him. But the truth was, he didn’t hate me. He just didn’t know how to stop needing me.”

Jack: “And did you love him?”

Jeeny: “At first. Then I pitied him. Then I missed him. Then I forgot what any of those words meant.”

Jack: “Sounds exhausting.”

Jeeny: “It was. But so is emptiness.”

Host: A pause. The kind that lengthens until it becomes an answer. Jack rubbed a hand across his face, the weight of her story settling on him like dust.

Jack: “Funny, isn’t it? How love, anger, jealousy—they all start by wanting to protect something, and end by trying to own it.”

Jeeny: “Because we confuse proximity with belonging. Just because you can reach something doesn’t mean it’s yours.”

Jack: “Try telling that to a heart that’s still waiting.”

Jeeny: “Then teach it to stop waiting.”

Host: The flame flickered, as if listening. The rain had turned steady now—a soft drumbeat outside, syncing with the slow rhythm of their hearts.

Jack: (quietly) “You ever been jealous?”

Jeeny: “Of course. I used to think jealousy was proof of love. Now I think it’s love’s shadow—the part that follows, never leads.”

Jack: “And anger?”

Jeeny: “Anger is love’s ghost—the noise it makes when it realizes it can’t come back.”

Host: He stared at her, the candlelight catching in his eyes like a small storm. His voice, when he spoke, was softer, almost raw.

Jack: “So what do you do with the ghosts?”

Jeeny: “You let them haunt you until they fade. Every haunting ends, Jack. It just needs time, and the courage to stop looking behind you.”

Host: The sound of the rain grew louder, rhythmic, like applause for some truth finally spoken aloud. The café was nearly empty now—only them, the candle, the ghosts of their words.

Jack: “Maybe that’s why I stay angry. Because if I stop, I have to admit it’s over.”

Jeeny: “Then stop being angry, Jack. You can’t keep watching something that’s already gone.”

Jack: “Easier said.”

Jeeny: “Everything worth peace is.”

Host: She reached across the table then, her hand brushing his—a small, fragile bridge across years of unspoken ache. He didn’t pull away.

Jack: “You ever think love’s not supposed to last?”

Jeeny: “Of course it’s not. Nothing alive does. It’s supposed to change shape. You just have to recognize it when it does.”

Jack: “And if you can’t?”

Jeeny: “Then you call it anger. Or jealousy. But really, it’s still love—just wearing armor.”

Host: He looked at her, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—a weary, human kind of smile. The kind that says: I’ve been there too.

Jack: “Maybe George Eliot was right. Maybe we never stop watching what hurt us. We just… learn to watch differently.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Love teaches us to look. Anger teaches us to let go. Both are ways of seeing.”

Host: The rain had stopped. The streetlights shimmered, the puddles outside glowing gold beneath them. Inside, the candle had burned low, its flame a thin whisper of light.

Jack: “You know, I think I’m finally ready to stop looking.”

Jeeny: “Good. Then maybe you’ll start seeing.”

Host: She smiled—soft, forgiving, infinite—and the world seemed to exhale. Outside, the city sighed in rhythm. Inside, the last flame flickered, then went out.

But in the dark, there was peace—not the absence of love, but the quiet after it learns to breathe without needing to be seen.