For any relationship to survive, one needs excellent

Host: The night had settled like a veil over the city, its streets shimmering with reflections from the neon lights. Inside a small coffee shop on the corner, the air was thick with the scent of espresso and the faint echo of an old jazz song playing on a worn radio. Raindrops slid down the windows, distorting the world outside into a blur of colors.

Jack sat by the window, his grey eyes fixed on the rain, his hands wrapped around a cup that had long gone cold. Jeeny sat across from him, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass, her eyes soft yet unwavering.

It was the kind of moment when truths lingered heavy in the air, waiting to be spoken.

Jeeny: “Kunal Khemu once said, ‘For any relationship to survive, one needs excellent communication.’” She looked at him gently. “Do you agree, Jack?”

Jack: (smirking faintly) “Depends on what you call excellent, Jeeny. People talk all the time — they just don’t listen. Communication’s overrated when intentions are already clear.”

Host: The lamplight flickered, catching the lines of fatigue on his face. Jeeny leaned forward, her brow furrowing slightly, her voice calm but edged with earnestness.

Jeeny: “That’s exactly the problem. Everyone talks, yes — but no one really communicates. They exchange words, not meaning. They defend, not understand. That’s why things fall apart.”

Jack: “You make it sound poetic, but real life’s not poetry. People have jobs, stress, baggage. You can’t expect everyone to sit around decoding feelings like it’s a therapy session.”

Jeeny: “You don’t need a therapy session to be present. Look at the couples that last decades — they survive not because they’re perfect, but because they talk, even when it’s hard.”

Jack: (sighs) “Talk? Or just repeat the same arguments until one of them gives up? I’ve seen marriages where people communicated daily — and still destroyed each other. Talking doesn’t save you from truth.”

Host: The rain intensified, its rhythm now drumming softly against the windowpane. A taxi passed, its headlights flashing across their faces — one weary, one hopeful.

Jeeny: “Then what does, Jack? Silence? Avoidance? Pretending it’s fine until it cracks?”

Jack: “Maybe acceptance. Maybe realizing that people grow apart — and no amount of excellent communication can stop that. Sometimes words only highlight the distance that’s already there.”

Jeeny: “But don’t you see? That’s where communication matters most. When distance grows, talking becomes the bridge. Like after the war — when people had lost everything, what kept them going wasn’t wealth or certainty, but the letters they sent home. Those words were connection.”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly, as though the memory wasn’t just historical, but personal. Jack’s jaw tightened; he stared into his cup, watching the steam fade.

Jack: “Letters... sure. Romantic notion. But people also lie in letters, Jeeny. They edit, they curate what they want others to see. Even honesty gets dressed up when written down.”

Jeeny: “Because honesty is vulnerable. That’s the point. Communication isn’t about control — it’s about trust. You have to risk being misunderstood to be understood at all.”

Host: The tension in the air thickened. The rain seemed to echo their voices, a soft argument of water and glass.

Jack: “And when you speak and it still doesn’t change anything? When your truth is met with silence or worse — indifference?”

Jeeny: “Then you still tried. That’s what love is — not winning, not being right, but trying. Because silence kills faster than any wrong word ever could.”

Jack: “You’re too idealistic, Jeeny. You think everything can be fixed with enough talking. But people are made of contradictions. Some words are weapons, not bridges.”

Jeeny: “And some silences are tombs, Jack. Do you remember that old couple who lived next door to me in Paris? They barely spoke for years after their son died. But one evening, I saw them sitting by the window, holding hands — not saying much, just talking quietly, finally sharing their grief. After that, they began again. It wasn’t words that healed them, but the courage to start speaking.”

Host: A faint smile flickered on her lips as she spoke, but Jack’s expression remained stone-like. The light caught the scar beneath his chin, a reminder of something — a story untold.

Jack: “You think I haven’t tried that? You think I haven’t talked, begged, explained, apologized? Communication doesn’t guarantee forgiveness.”

Jeeny: (softly) “No. But it gives you a chance to find it.”

Host: The silence that followed was deep and fragile. Outside, the rain softened, as if listening.

Jack leaned back, his eyes unfocused, drifting into some memory.

Jack: “When my father died, I didn’t speak to him for three years before that. We had a fight — stupid one, about money. I thought I’d make peace later. But there wasn’t a later. I tried writing to him once, but never sent it. Maybe communication would’ve changed nothing. But maybe it would’ve changed everything.”

Jeeny: (gently) “That’s what I mean, Jack. We lose people not because they stop loving us — but because we stop speaking. Because we assume there’ll be time.”

Host: Her eyes glistened in the dim light, and Jack’s voice lowered, like the final note of a long song.

Jack: “You really believe words can mend the cracks?”

Jeeny: “No. But they can keep the pieces from drifting too far apart.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked, each second carrying a quiet truth between them.

Jack: “You know, maybe communication isn’t about being excellent. Maybe it’s just about being willing. To speak, to listen, to try again.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because love doesn’t die when people fight — it dies when they stop trying to understand.”

Host: The rain had now ceased, leaving a faint mist over the streets. The lights from passing cars painted their faces in gold and shadow.

Jack: (half-smiling) “So you’re saying, survival isn’t about compatibility — it’s about conversation.”

Jeeny: (laughs softly) “Exactly. Even a storm needs thunder to find its rhythm.”

Host: For a moment, they both sat there, silent — not out of distance, but of peace. The tension that had built between them dissolved, leaving something warmer, quieter.

Jack: “Alright, Jeeny. Maybe you’re right. Maybe communication doesn’t fix everything. But maybe... it keeps us human.”

Jeeny: “And that’s enough.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — the two of them in that small café, framed by misty glass and the faint hum of the city. Their faces softened, their words spent, but their connection renewed.

The rain had ended. Only a thin beam of light from a distant streetlamp fell across their table, like a quiet blessing on the fragile truth they’d both come to share.

And in that stillness, the world, for a brief moment, seemed to be listening too.