Being single is only sad if you have a problem with your own

Host:
The evening had folded itself around the city, wrapping it in the soft velvet of solitude. Rain had stopped just before twilight, leaving the streets slick, reflective, as if the world were a mirror trying to remember who it used to be.

Inside a small apartment high above the noise, the lights were dim. Books leaned against one another on the shelves, half-burned candles filled the air with amber smoke, and a single record played quietly—an old French melody that sounded like a conversation between nostalgia and peace.

Jack sat by the window, a glass of red wine in hand, the city’s glow flickering in his gray eyes. Jeeny reclined on the sofa, legs tucked beneath her, a half-smile resting on her lips as she stared at the ceiling fan turning slow circles.

The quote was written on a post-it note stuck to the edge of the windowpane, catching the fading light:

“Being single is only sad if you have a problem with your own company. I’m content with mine.” – Olga Kurylenko

Jeeny:
(softly, half to herself)
Olga Kurylenko said that. “Being single is only sad if you have a problem with your own company.” I love how that sounds—simple, but fearless.

Jack:
(smirking, without looking up)
Fearless—or defensive. Depends who you ask.

Host:
His voice carried that familiar tone—a mix of cynicism and quiet exhaustion, the sound of someone who has worn solitude like a badge too long to admit it ever cut.

Jeeny:
(turns her head toward him, eyebrow raised)
Defensive? Why? Because she doesn’t define herself by who sits next to her?

Jack:
Because people who are truly at peace alone don’t need to say it out loud.

Jeeny:
(smiles knowingly)
Maybe. Or maybe they say it because the world keeps telling them they shouldn’t be.

Host:
A car horn echoed faintly below. The rainwater on the streets caught the light from the lamps, splitting it into thin ribbons of gold, the whole city looking like it was made of sighs.

Jack:
You really believe people can be completely content alone?

Jeeny:
Yes. But it’s not about being alone. It’s about being enough. There’s a difference.

Jack:
(leans forward, swirling his wine)
Enough for yourself? That’s a dangerous idea. Humans are built to crave reflection—to see themselves in someone else’s eyes.

Jeeny:
(quietly, but certain)
And maybe the saddest thing is when you don’t recognize what you see there.

Host:
A faint smile ghosted across her face, but her eyes stayed serious—lit with the kind of calm that only comes after you’ve cried more than you speak.

Jack:
You sound like you’ve practiced solitude.

Jeeny:
(laughs softly)
I’ve befriended it. There’s a difference between loneliness and aloneness. Loneliness is hunger. Aloneness is peace after the hunger passes.

Jack:
(snorts lightly)
You make it sound like fasting.

Jeeny:
In a way, it is. A fast from noise, from validation, from the constant need to be seen to believe you exist.

Host:
The record skipped once, then carried on, the singer’s voice—low, tired, beautiful—rolling through the room like candlelight on water.

Jack:
You really think someone like Olga—famous, admired, photographed—can be content with her own company?

Jeeny:
Why not? Maybe that’s why she had to learn to be. The loneliest people are often surrounded by applause.

Jack:
(pauses, glances at her)
You sound like you’re defending yourself, not her.

Jeeny:
Maybe I am.

Host:
Her voice dropped then, quieter than before, but the words lingered, full of something unspoken—half confession, half truth. The rain began again, light and rhythmic, tapping gently against the glass.

Jack:
You ever get tired of it? The silence?

Jeeny:
Sometimes. But I don’t mistake it for emptiness anymore. I think solitude can be full—if you know how to listen to it.

Jack:
And what does it say?

Jeeny:
That I’m enough. That I don’t need to be seen to be real.

Host:
He watched her then, really watched her. The way the light touched her face, how her eyes reflected both peace and distance. It was the kind of moment that felt like art—still, aching, whole.

Jack:
You ever think maybe people like us use independence as armor? Pretend we’re content just to avoid disappointment?

Jeeny:
(softly, but with fire underneath)
And maybe people like you call peace “pretending” because you’ve never known it.

Jack:
(smiles faintly, stung but respectful)
Fair point.

Host:
The sound of thunder rumbled somewhere far off, a low, ancient growl that made the air tremble. The room felt smaller suddenly, intimate, like a confession booth.

Jeeny:
I think being single is only sad when you see yourself as incomplete. When you think you’re half of something waiting to be found.

Jack:
And you don’t?

Jeeny:
No. I think I’m a whole thing. Maybe not perfect, but whole. And whoever comes along—if anyone does—they shouldn’t complete me. They should expand me.

Jack:
(quietly, smiling)
That’s terrifying and beautiful at the same time.

Jeeny:
All truth is.

Host:
The rain slowed again, as if listening. Outside, the city lights blurred in the reflection of the window, turning the world into abstract watercolor. Inside, the air carried the quiet weight of understanding.

Jack:
You know, I envy that kind of peace.

Jeeny:
You could have it.

Jack:
I’m not sure I’d know what to do with it.

Jeeny:
You’d sit in the silence. You’d learn to like the sound of your own breathing. You’d realize that the echo you keep running from is just your own soul saying hello.

Jack:
(smiles)
You make solitude sound like an old friend.

Jeeny:
It is. I just stopped ignoring her calls.

Host:
They both laughed softly—two small sounds against the quiet pulse of the storm outside. The record reached its end, the needle circling in a gentle hiss, a reminder that even endings can hum.

Jack:
Maybe that’s what Olga meant. Being single isn’t sad because it’s empty—it’s sad only when you think you’re missing something that was never yours to begin with.

Jeeny:
Exactly. Contentment isn’t absence—it’s presence. It’s realizing you can sit with yourself and still feel like you’re in good company.

Host:
The rain stopped. The sky cleared just enough for the faintest moonlight to slip through, silvering their faces, painting their solitude in grace instead of lack.

Jack:
(softly)
So, you’re content with your company.

Jeeny:
(smiling)
I’m learning to be. That’s enough.

Host:
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of wet earth and jasmine through the open window. The world outside was still, glistening, new again.

And for the first time that night, their silence didn’t feel heavy—it felt whole.

In that quiet room, two people sat not as halves waiting for completion,
but as souls—each self-contained,
each luminous in their solitude,
each quietly, fiercely,
enough.