At the time in our lives that we met, we had both made our

Host: The evening light spilled across the balcony like liquid amber, catching the edges of two half-empty glasses of wine. Below, the city glowed, its heartbeat a muffled rhythm of horns, laughter, and distant music. The air was warm, the kind of quiet heat that holds the memory of the day.

Jack leaned against the railing, sleeves rolled up, a cigarette burning between his fingers. His eyes, gray and tired, looked beyond the lights, as if searching for something he couldn’t name. Jeeny, curled in a chair nearby, sipped slowly, her bare feet tucked beneath her, her expression tender but pensive.

Jack: “Robert Wolders said, ‘At the time in our lives that we met, we had both made our mistakes. If chance would have had it that we would have met at an earlier stage, we might not have had the discoveries together that we did have...’”

He paused, exhaling smoke that coiled upward into the darkness.

Jack: “You ever think about that, Jeeny? That timing’s just… everything?”

Jeeny: “I think about it all the time. The people we meet, the ones we lose—it’s like the universe keeps its own schedule. Maybe that’s what makes love real, Jack. Not perfection, but timing.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the scent of rain and concrete. The sky throbbed with distant thunder, the kind that promises but rarely delivers.

Jack: “Timing, huh? That’s the romantic version. But to me, it sounds like an excuse for fate. People love to say ‘it wasn’t the right time,’ when what they mean is, ‘I wasn’t the right person.’”

Jeeny: “Maybe both can be true. Maybe we become the right person because of time. You can’t force growth, Jack. You can only live through it.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice was soft, but her eyes shone with that unmistakable fire—the kind that burns not from anger, but from truth.

Jack: “So you’re saying we need to mess up first? That mistakes are some kind of prerequisite to love?”

Jeeny: “Not to love. To understanding it. There’s a difference. The younger us—before heartbreak, before failure—we love for validation. But when we’re older, we love for connection. For peace.”

Jack: “Peace,” he murmured, the word rolling out like smoke. “You talk like love’s a sanctuary. I’ve only seen it as a battlefield.”

Host: Jeeny smiled, a sad, knowing smile, one that seemed to remember things she would never say aloud.

Jeeny: “That’s because you fought in it, Jack. Some people build walls; others build homes. You chose the war.”

Jack: “No. I just stopped believing that love fixes people. It doesn’t. It just exposes who they are.”

Host: The wind picked up, ruffling his hair, tugging at the curtain behind them. The balcony light flickered, as if the universe itself were listening.

Jeeny: “But maybe that’s what Wolders meant. That only after the mistakes—after the wars—can we meet someone and see them. Not as a mirror, not as salvation, but as another soul walking the same broken road.”

Jack: “And you think that makes it better?”

Jeeny: “No. Just real. There’s beauty in what’s flawed, Jack. Perfection doesn’t teach us how to stay.”

Host: The city buzzed below them, a symphony of motion and light, while the two of them remained still, trapped in a moment that felt both infinite and fragile.

Jack: “You make it sound poetic. But in reality, timing’s just luck. Two people meet, they’re in the same emotional place, and it works. If not, it doesn’t. End of story.”

Jeeny: “Then why does it haunt you?”

Host: The question hung like smoke, thick and unavoidable. Jack’s jaw tightened, his eyes lowering.

Jack: “Because I’ve met people I could’ve loved—if only I’d been someone else then.”

Jeeny: “And that’s the tragedy, isn’t it? The right person, wrong time. The heart knows before the mind is ready.”

Host: A flash of lightning split the sky, illuminating their faces for an instant—his worn, hers radiant, both marked by the years that had taught them and the scars that had kept them human.

Jack: “You sound like you’ve forgiven the past.”

Jeeny: “I had to. Otherwise, I’d never recognize happiness when it arrived.”

Jack: “And if it doesn’t?”

Jeeny: “Then I’ll still be ready. Because the lesson is the same. It’s not about when love arrives—it’s about who you’ve become when it does.”

Host: Rain began to fall, gentle at first, then steadier, pattering on the metal rail and glass table. Jeeny tilted her head, letting a few drops touch her face, smiling faintly.

Jack: “You know, I used to think love was supposed to happen like in the movies—fireworks, first glances, fate. But maybe it’s like… rainfall. It comes when you stop running from the clouds.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s timing, Jack. And patience. You can’t chase the rain—it finds you when you’ve stopped pretending you’re dry.”

Host: The moment shifted, the tension melting into something tender, quiet, and real. Jack stepped closer, his voice barely a whisper above the sound of the storm.

Jack: “Do you think we met at the right time?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But maybe that’s why we understand each other now.”

Host: The rain softened, turning to a mist, glimmering under the streetlights below. The city’s hum returned, gentle, enduring, as if the world itself were breathing again.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack… love isn’t about arriving perfect. It’s about arriving human. Wolders understood that. That two people can meet too soon, lose each other, and still, years later, meet again—not to rekindle, but to recognize.”

Jack: “Recognize?”

Jeeny: “That they were both just children then—pretending to be ready for forever.”

Host: Jack’s cigarette burned out, the embers falling like tiny stars onto the wet floor. He laughed softly, a sound that was both sad and relieved.

Jack: “Maybe timing doesn’t heal love—it just matures it. Like wine left too long in the dark.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And if you’re lucky, when you open it years later, it tastes of everything you’ve learned—and everything you’ve lost.”

Host: The storm clouds parted, and a single beam of moonlight slipped through, silvering the balcony, the glasses, their faces. Jack reached for his wine, raised it slightly.

Jack: “To the wrong times that make the right people.”

Jeeny: “To the mistakes that teach us how to love.”

Host: They drank, silence wrapping around them like a soft blanket, the rain now just a memory. The city below breathed, alive and infinite, as two souls, once scarred by the wrong seasons, finally found peace in the right one—not because time had been kind, but because they had learned to be.