Even when I see a beautiful woman, I think, 'Aw, her life must be

Host: The night hung heavy over the city, veiled in a thin mist that caught the streetlights like trembling gold dust. From the wide window of a downtown bar, the neon glow painted Jack and Jeeny in faint reds and blues. The air smelled of rain, and music drifted softly — an old song about love and illusion. Jack sat at the bar, his grey eyes sharp yet tired, his hands wrapped around a half-empty glass. Jeeny sat beside him, her hair dark and wet from the drizzle, her eyes filled with that quiet fire that came when she was about to challenge the world.

Jeeny: “Marina once said something true, Jack. ‘Even when I see a beautiful woman, I think, her life must be amazing. Everyone does it. It’s human nature to believe that beauty is everything.’”

Jack: “Yeah, she’s right about that last part — it is human nature. We’re wired to value what’s beautiful. Always have been. You see symmetry, you assume perfection. It’s survival, Jeeny, not sin.”

Host: The bartender wiped the counter, pretending not to listen. Outside, a car honked, its sound cutting through the soft music. Jack’s voice was low, pragmatic — almost mechanical — as if he were explaining a rule of physics rather than the hollowness of human envy.

Jeeny: “But that’s the tragedy, Jack. We see a face, a body, and we stop there. We think their beauty protects them from the pain the rest of us feel. It’s a lie we tell ourselves so we can keep worshipping what we’ll never be.”

Jack: “A lie? No. It’s a shortcut. The brain sees beauty and assumes competence, happiness, virtue. It’s efficient. The world runs on first impressions. Even in business — you dress sharp, you get respect. Look at politics, marketing, hell, even charity campaigns. Beauty gets attention. Attention gets results.”

Host: Jeeny’s fingers traced the rim of her glass, her reflection trembling on the surface like a small ghost. The light flickered, revealing the tired shadows beneath her eyes.

Jeeny: “But don’t you see? That’s the sickness. We reward what we can see instead of what is. We crown the image, not the soul. Do you know how many people — women especially — break themselves just to fit that frame? Just to be seen?”

Jack: “And what’s your alternative? Pretend beauty doesn’t matter? Close your eyes and say, ‘I only care about the inside’? The world doesn’t work that way. We’re visual creatures. Beauty signals health, strength, good genes — biology, not cruelty.”

Jeeny: “Biology is not destiny, Jack. Society has turned biology into currency. And when you can’t pay, you’re invisible. Do you remember Marilyn Monroe? The world saw her as the goddess of beauty — but inside, she was falling apart. Everyone thought her life was perfect. It wasn’t. Beauty didn’t save her.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. He looked away, staring at the rain streaking down the window, the lights bending and melting into liquid color. For a moment, he said nothing.

Jack: “Maybe she just couldn’t handle what came with it. Fame’s a curse in itself. But still — without beauty, she wouldn’t have even been noticed. The world used her, sure. But it gave her a name that still lives decades later.”

Jeeny: “A name carved out of her suffering. You call that living? She became a symbol of every woman the world adored for her looks and forgot for her soul. Tell me, Jack — when’s the last time you saw a woman praised for her wisdom before her face?”

Host: The silence was thick, almost physical. A train rumbled somewhere in the distance. Jack took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes unreadable.

Jack: “Wisdom doesn’t sell perfume, Jeeny. The world’s shallow — I’m not defending it, just stating it. Beauty opens doors. You can’t change that.”

Jeeny: “But we can question it. That’s what Marina meant — that reflex, that instant belief that beauty equals happiness. It’s a myth we keep feeding because it comforts us. If beautiful people have perfect lives, then maybe our ugliness explains our pain. It gives our suffering order.”

Host: Her voice trembled, then steadied — a quiet storm gathering. Jack’s fingers drummed the bar, restless, like a man trying to find logic in chaos.

Jack: “So what — you want to dismantle an instinct? Rewire humanity? You can’t teach people not to see.”

Jeeny: “No, but you can teach them to look deeper. You can teach them that a perfect face doesn’t mean a peaceful heart. You can teach them empathy — not worship. Do you remember that model, Cara Delevingne? Everyone thought she had it all — fame, money, beauty. And she said herself, ‘I hated myself. I didn’t want to live.’”

Jack: “Yeah. I read that. But she’s one in a million, Jeeny. Most people would trade places with her in a second.”

Jeeny: “And most would die under the same weight. You think envy makes people strong? It rots them, Jack. It turns admiration into poison.”

Host: The music faded to a slow melody, the kind that made time stretch and blur. Jack’s eyes softened — not in agreement, but in fatigue, as if he were tired of fighting the truth he didn’t want to admit.

Jack: “So what do you want, Jeeny? A world where no one admires beauty? Where we pretend attraction doesn’t exist?”

Jeeny: “No. A world where we stop mistaking surface for substance. Where a woman’s worth isn’t measured by how many heads she turns, but how many hearts she heals. Where we stop assuming the beautiful are blessed and the broken are ugly.”

Host: A pause. The rain intensified, hammering the glass. The bar’s lights flickered, and in that moment, Jack looked truly haunted.

Jack: “You talk like you’ve lived it.”

Jeeny: “Haven’t we all? You’ve never envied someone’s life just because they looked like they had no cracks?”

Jack: “…Yeah. Once. More than once.”

Host: His voice cracked faintly — a sound quickly swallowed by the hum of the room. He looked down at his hands, as if the memory were burned there.

Jack: “In college, there was this guy — rich, charming, handsome. Everyone thought he had everything. Turns out, he’d been battling depression for years. Took his life before graduation. The day before, I remember saying, ‘God, I wish I had his life.’”

Jeeny: “And that’s it, Jack. That’s Marina’s point. We all do it. We see beauty, we see the mask — and we believe in it because it’s easier than facing the truth: that suffering doesn’t care how you look.”

Host: The rain began to slow. The streetlight outside dimmed, throwing their faces into a shared shadow — two silhouettes bound by the same ache of understanding.

Jack: “So what now, Jeeny? What do we do with this awareness? Stop admiring people altogether?”

Jeeny: “No. Admire. But also listen. Don’t worship beauty — honor humanity. See the cracks, the scars, the trembling underneath. That’s where real beauty hides.”

Jack: “You make it sound so simple.”

Jeeny: “It isn’t. But it starts with one change — when you look at someone and instead of saying, ‘Her life must be amazing,’ you ask, ‘I wonder what she’s carrying.’”

Host: The room fell quiet, save for the soft clinking of ice in their glasses. A slow, golden light broke through the clouds, spilling across the windowpane, painting both of them in the same soft glow — neither beautiful nor flawed, just human.

Jack: “You always find a way to make me feel guilty for being human.”

Jeeny: “Not guilty, Jack. Just aware.”

Host: Jack gave a faint smile, the kind that carried more defeat than joy, and yet — beneath it — a strange peace. Outside, the rain had stopped. The city, once blurred and cold, gleamed again — raw, imperfect, but alive.

And for the first time that night, the bar felt a little warmer.