As much time and effort, emotion, anger, love, joy that you put

Host: The night hung low over the city, heavy with mist and the faint scent of rain-soaked asphalt. The neon lights from a nearby bar flickered like tired eyes refusing to sleep. Inside, the air was thick — a blend of cigarette smoke, cheap whiskey, and the soft, broken melody of a saxophone bleeding from an old speaker in the corner.

Jack sat alone at a small table, the dim light catching the edge of his jawline, half-illuminating his grey eyes that stared into nothing. A half-empty glass of bourbon sat before him, its amber surface trembling slightly with each note from the sax.

Jeeny walked in a few minutes later, her long black hair still damp from the rain, her coat clinging to her frame. She spotted him immediately — as if the gravity of his solitude pulled her in.

She sat across from him without a word.

The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It was honest.

Jeeny: “Logic once said, ‘As much time and effort, emotion, anger, love, joy that you put into another human being, you're not guaranteed to receive that back. And that's OK. That’s alright.’”

Jack: (snorts) “Sounds like a consolation prize for the brokenhearted.”

Jeeny: “No. It sounds like truth — the kind people spend their whole lives denying.”

Host: The bartender passed behind them, wiping the counter with the rhythm of someone who’d heard every version of human pain. The rain outside tapped the window like an old friend trying to be let in.

Jack: “You think it’s alright? To give everything and get nothing?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because love isn’t a transaction, Jack. It’s not an investment that demands equal returns.”

Jack: “Spoken like someone who’s never been left waiting.”

Jeeny: “No — spoken like someone who has.”

Host: Her voice carried both tenderness and steel, like a whisper that could still cut through glass. Jack shifted in his seat, his eyes narrowing, but not out of anger — out of recognition.

Jack: “You know what people call that kind of thinking? Foolish. Naïve. You give too much, Jeeny. You keep pouring out of a cup that never gets filled back.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point — to pour, not to measure.”

Jack: “You say that until you’re empty.”

Jeeny: “And then what? You refill. But not from them. From yourself.”

Host: The light above their table flickered once, then steadied, casting a gentle halo over the table like an unspoken truce.

Jeeny’s eyes softened, but her voice grew firmer.

Jeeny: “Do you remember the parable of the Good Samaritan? He stopped for a man bleeding on the road, gave his cloak, his coin, his care — knowing he’d never get anything back. That story isn’t about reward, Jack. It’s about being human, even when humanity doesn’t repay you.”

Jack: (leans back, scoffing lightly) “And what did it get him? Just another person’s burden.”

Jeeny: “No, it got him peace. The kind that comes when you stop asking if kindness is worth it.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the door, and for a moment, the streetlight outside flashed across their faces — her serene, his conflicted.

Jack: “I used to believe in that. In giving. I gave my time, my love, my patience. But all it did was teach people how to take.”

Jeeny: “And what did you expect? Gratitude? Equality? That’s the mistake, Jack — believing love comes with symmetry.”

Jack: “So what, we just keep giving until we’re dry? You think that’s noble? It’s not — it’s self-destruction.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s acceptance. There’s a difference.”

Host: Her words landed softly, but their weight was immense — like rainfall on a tired earth. Jack’s hand tightened around his glass, the ice inside clinking like a quiet echo of his defenses.

Jack: “You talk about love like it’s infinite. But it’s not. People get tired, Jeeny. People run out.”

Jeeny: “They only run out when they confuse love with exchange. True love — whether it’s for a person, a cause, or a child — doesn’t drain. It transforms.”

Jack: (sarcastically) “You sound like a poet on caffeine.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “And you sound like a man still standing in the ruins of his own expectations.”

Host: For a moment, Jack’s eyes flickered with something raw — pain disguised as irritation. He looked down, his reflection trembling in the bourbon’s surface.

Jack: “I gave everything to someone once. Time. Effort. Emotion. The whole damn alphabet of affection. And in the end, she just… left. No warning. No reason.”

Jeeny: (gently) “So you stopped giving?”

Jack: “I stopped believing it mattered.”

Jeeny: “But it did. To her, maybe not. But to you? It made you real.”

Host: The rain outside grew heavier now, drumming like a confession. Jeeny reached across the table and rested her hand near his — close enough to bridge the silence, but far enough to respect the distance.

Jeeny: “Jack, love isn’t a guarantee. It’s a gamble. You play not because you expect to win, but because the game itself is beautiful. The effort, the laughter, even the heartbreak — it all means something. That’s what Logic meant. That it’s alright if it’s not returned, because it was real when it was given.”

Jack: “You think pain is beauty?”

Jeeny: “I think honesty is. And there’s nothing more honest than unreciprocated love.”

Host: A long silence hung between them. The music in the background changed — a slower tune, something blue and aching.

Jack rubbed his forehead, exhaling like someone finally releasing a weight he’d carried too long.

Jack: “You ever loved someone who didn’t love you back?”

Jeeny: (after a pause) “Yes.”

Jack: “And you’re okay with that?”

Jeeny: “I am now. Because I realized I wasn’t really loving them. I was loving the part of me that could love at all.”

Jack: “So… you learned to love yourself through rejection?”

Jeeny: “Through endurance. Through knowing I could still feel deeply even when the world didn’t echo it back.”

Host: Her words filled the space like a quiet flame. Jack’s eyes softened, not out of agreement, but out of understanding — the kind that comes too late but still arrives.

He looked at her — really looked — and for once, his cynicism seemed to fall away like rust in the rain.

Jack: “Maybe I’ve been expecting too much.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe you’ve just been expecting from the wrong direction. Love doesn’t always return through the same door you sent it out of. Sometimes it comes back through a stranger’s smile, or through peace you didn’t know you’d earned.”

Jack: “That sounds… unfair.”

Jeeny: “It’s not fair, Jack. It’s life. And that’s alright.”

Host: The bartender dimmed the lights as the clock neared midnight. The last of the rain softened into a whisper. Jack’s hand finally found Jeeny’s — not for comfort, not for love, but for something quieter. Acceptance.

Jack: (softly) “You know, maybe Logic was right. Maybe we don’t give to receive. Maybe we give because that’s the only part we can control.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The return isn’t your responsibility — the offering is.”

Jack: “Then maybe… I’m not broken. Just… unfinished.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “None of us are finished, Jack. We’re just stories in progress. Some chapters return to us, some don’t.”

Host: The music faded into silence. Only the faint hum of the rain-soaked city remained — gentle, forgiving.

Jack raised his glass, this time not in bitterness, but in quiet tribute.

Jack: “To giving.”

Jeeny: “To giving — even when it’s not returned.”

Host: They drank. The neon sign outside flickered once more — a faint pulse of red and gold — before surrendering to darkness.

In that dim, final glow, something inside both of them softened.

For they understood at last what Logic meant — that love, effort, emotion, and time are not promises of reciprocity,
but proof of existence.

And to give, even without return,
is to remain beautifully alive.