Don't give me books for Christmas; I already have a book.

Opening Scene – Narrated by Host

The cold night air pressed against the city’s steel veins, and the glow of streetlights sliced through the fog like knives. A thin mist lingered around the small café where Jack and Jeeny sat in a corner booth, alone. The soft clinking of cups and the distant hum of conversation barely reached them.

Jack leaned back, his grey eyes fixed on the window, the reflection of his face barely visible in the dark. His hands drummed against the wooden table, a faint tension pulling at the edges of his jaw. Jeeny sat across from him, her long black hair spilling over her shoulder, the deep brown of her eyes looking past him as she traced the rim of her coffee cup. Her lips were slightly parted, as if she was waiting for the right words to escape. The air between them was thick — charged.

Host: The night felt heavy, as if the world had drawn a breath and was holding it in. Jeeny glanced at Jack, then back to her cup. The soft light from the table cast gentle shadows on her face, giving her a look of distant contemplation. Jack's lips twitched, but he stayed silent, as if the words were a game he didn't care to play tonight.

Jack: “You know,” he said, his voice low, raspy, breaking the silence, “I never understood people who collect things. Gifts, books, souvenirs. Hoarding meaning like that.”

Jeeny: She raised an eyebrow, her voice gentle, but firm. “You think it’s all just meaningless?”

Jack: “Exactly. Take Christmas. People pile gifts on top of each other, expecting some joy from the material, like that’s going to fill a void. But in the end, it’s just stuff.” His lips curled slightly in a mocking smile. “Books, toys, whatever. Temporary distractions.”

Jeeny: Her eyes softened, but the fire inside her wasn’t extinguished. “It’s not about the things, Jack. It’s about the thought. The intention. You don’t give something to fill a void; you give because it’s an expression of love, connection.”

Jack: He smirked, leaning forward, the light catching his sharp features. “So, if I give someone a book for Christmas, I’m somehow saying ‘I love you more’ than if I gave them nothing? Really?”

Jeeny: Her voice dropped an octave, her words growing more poetic, more conviction behind them. “Yes, Jack. If you give them something that matters — a piece of your soul, not just a shiny object. A book holds ideas, memories, stories that last far longer than the wrapping paper it comes in. It’s not about the price, it’s about what you’re willing to give. Time, thought, care.”

Jack: His eyes narrowed, a slight frustration creeping into his voice. “It’s all just a performance, Jeeny. People don’t really care about the sentiment behind gifts. They care about the expectation — the ritual. The status.”

Jeeny: She shook her head, her lips parting as she searched for the right words. “You’ve missed the point. That’s what’s wrong with the world, Jack. We’ve reduced the deepest parts of us to materialism. It’s not about status. It’s about humanity, about acknowledging someone’s presence in your life. Presence is the only gift that lasts. Everything else is just… stuff.”

Jack: “So, what? We should give books for Christmas because it’s more meaningful than a watch or a sweater?” He laughed, shaking his head. “You can’t measure that, Jeeny. It’s subjective.”

Jeeny: “And you think facts are the answer to everything?” Her voice rose a little, the passion she’d kept under wraps now spilling over. “I’m not talking about measuring. I’m talking about feeling. About how a gesture makes you see someone. Like when someone gives you a book they’ve loved, you’re not just receiving paper and ink. You’re receiving their heart.”

Host: The silence in the café deepened for a moment, as if the world had paused. Jack’s hand lay flat on the table, still — but there was a faint tension in his fingers. Jeeny’s chest rose and fell slowly as her eyes held him, unwavering.

Jack: “But you know, Jeeny,” he said slowly, leaning back in his chair, his voice quieter now, “sometimes gifts can be a burden. The obligation to give, the pressure to feel something that’s just not there.”

Jeeny: “Then don’t give if you don’t want to,” she said softly. “But when you do give, give from your heart. Don’t make it a transaction. Make it an offering.”

Jack: His lips twisted again, but this time, it was less of a smirk, more of a sad smile. “I don’t know, Jeeny. I’ve never really been able to buy into all that sentimentality.”

Jeeny: “And that’s exactly what’s wrong with you, Jack. You’ve let the world take your faith in meaning.” She let the words settle between them, her voice calm now, almost like a whisper. “You think a book is just paper. I think a book is a doorway.”

Host: The quiet of the moment stretched out, as Jack and Jeeny sat there, the echoes of their words still hanging in the air. The steam rising from their mugs curled around them like an invisible thread, binding them in the silence of their thoughts.

Jack: He looked down at the table, his fingers curling around the edges of his mug, the heat of it grounding him. “I’m not sure I can see it like you do.”

Jeeny: She smiled gently, her eyes softening with a quiet understanding. “Maybe you don’t have to. Maybe one day, you’ll just see it in a way that feels right.”

Jack: He glanced at her, the hardness in his expression melting just a little. “You’re always so hopeful, Jeeny. Maybe that’s your gift.”

Jeeny: Her smile widened, the softness of it reaching her eyes. “And maybe that’s why I keep believing. Because in the end, it’s not the gifts that matter. It’s the love you give with them.”

Host: The café was still, save for the occasional clink of a spoon. Outside, the fog had begun to lift, and the first light of morning began to push through the haze. Jack and Jeeny sat there, not saying anything more, but for the first time, the distance between them seemed a little smaller.