For me, physical beauty is never the reason for attraction to

Host: The night air hung heavy with the scent of rain and earth, seeping in through the half-open window of the little studio above a narrow street in Mumbai. The city below pulsed with its familiar rhythm — horns, laughter, footsteps, dreams colliding in the thick heat. Inside, the room was dim, lit only by the flicker of a film projector and the soft hum of an old fan.

Jack sat cross-legged on the wooden floor, surrounded by strips of film, photos, and storyboards. Jeeny, in a loose white shirt, sat opposite him, her hair slightly damp, her eyes catching the silver flicker of the light. Between them, a small radio whispered an old Hindi melody — something about love, memory, and time.

Host: The projector light danced across their faces — a ghostly play of shadows and truths. Outside, thunder rumbled like a distant confession.

Jeeny: “You ever think about it, Jack — how people call it love when half the time it’s just desire in disguise?”

Jack: “Desire’s honest, Jeeny. Love isn’t. Desire says, ‘I want you.’ Love says, ‘I understand you.’ But no one really does.”

Jeeny: “That’s cynical. You sound like one of those old French directors who believed in lust, not connection.”

Jack: “Because I’ve seen what people call connection. It’s symmetry. Beauty. Skin. Everyone wants something that looks like a magazine cover. Nobody falls for the invisible.”

Host: The rain began, soft at first, a delicate drumming against the tin roof. Jeeny’s eyes narrowed, her voice low but bright, like a spark inside a storm.

Jeeny: “But Katrina Kaif once said something I’ll never forget — ‘For me, physical beauty is never the reason for attraction to anyone.’ I think she meant that love is a kind of spiritual recognition — something that happens beneath the surface.”

Jack: “Easy to say when you look like her.”

Jeeny: “That’s cruel, Jack.”

Jack: “It’s real. The beautiful talk about inner beauty because they’ve never had to live without outer beauty. For them, it’s a luxury to pretend looks don’t matter.”

Host: His words cut, sharp and clean. The projector light flickered, stuttering between their faces like the heartbeat of something fragile.

Jeeny: “You think beauty’s a lie?”

Jack: “No. I think it’s a weapon. We use it to judge, to choose, to worship. Look around — we build entire industries on it. Fashion, film, politics. Even kindness gets rewarded when it comes with the right face.”

Jeeny: “Then why are you here, making films about broken people, not pretty ones?”

Jack: “Because I’m tired of the lie. I want the truth — the cracked, unfiltered, ugly truth.”

Jeeny: “But beauty can live in the cracks, too. Haven’t you ever seen someone so honest that it makes them beautiful? The way they speak, the way they fail, the way they just… exist?”

Host: She leaned forward, her eyes shining, her hands trembling slightly as she spoke. The projector reel clicked, casting a brief shadow across her face — and for a moment, she looked both divine and human, all at once.

Jack: “You mean like empathy disguised as attraction?”

Jeeny: “Maybe empathy is attraction.”

Jack: “Then why does it fade? Why do people fall out of love when the body changes, when the years come, when the mirror stops agreeing?”

Jeeny: “Because we confuse love with possession. When we love someone’s body, we want to keep it. When we love someone’s soul, we want to free it.”

Host: The rain grew louder, a steady rhythm filling the silence between their words. The projector stopped, the last frame frozen on the wall — an image of two lovers standing in the rain, their faces blurred, their shapes indistinct.

Jack: “You really think you can love someone’s soul without wanting their body?”

Jeeny: “Not without wanting. But without depending on it. You can desire someone’s presence without owning their skin.”

Jack: “That’s poetic, Jeeny. But life’s not poetry. People want to touch what they love.”

Jeeny: “And that’s fine. Touch isn’t the crime. The crime is believing the touch is all that matters.”

Host: Jack stood, pacing slowly, his hands in his pockets. The light caught the faint scar across his jaw — a mark from another time, another fight, another woman. He stared at the rain-streaked window.

Jack: “You sound like you’ve never been betrayed by beauty.”

Jeeny: “I have. That’s why I learned to stop trusting it.”

Host: Her voice softened, but there was fire beneath it. The kind of fire that comes from having been burned.

Jeeny: “You know, when I was younger, I loved someone because he looked like a dream. Every time he smiled, I thought it meant something. But one day he stopped smiling, and I realized I’d fallen for an expression — not a man. That’s when I learned that beauty is temporary, but attention — real attention — is rare.”

Jack: “Attention is just the prelude to disappointment.”

Jeeny: “Only if you’re afraid of what you might find.”

Host: Jack laughed, low and bitter, the kind of laugh that hides pain behind humor.

Jack: “You think you can love someone through their flaws. Until those flaws turn into noise, and all that remains is fatigue.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. You can love them through the noise — if you recognize yourself in it.”

Host: A flash of lightning illuminated the room, washing them in white for a brief second. In that instant, their eyes met — not as opposites, but as reflections of the same exhaustion.

Jack: “You really believe attraction can survive without beauty?”

Jeeny: “I think attraction begins where beauty ends.”

Jack: “Explain.”

Jeeny: “Beauty draws you near. But attraction — the real kind — keeps you there after beauty fades. It’s when you’ve seen the worst of someone and still find them magnetic.”

Host: Jack’s brow furrowed, his eyes clouded with something between skepticism and longing.

Jack: “So love is… persistence?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s presence. Staying awake in someone’s soul, even when the light changes.”

Host: The thunder rolled again, like applause from the heavens. A streetlight flickered through the window, spilling gold across Jeeny’s face — not perfect, not posed, just alive.

Jack watched her, his words quieter now.

Jack: “Maybe that’s why I never trust beautiful things. They fade too quickly.”

Jeeny: “Everything fades, Jack. That’s not a reason to stop believing in it. You don’t stare at a sunset and curse it for ending.”

Host: The rain slowed. The fan creaked, and the old radio played the final notes of its song. Somewhere outside, a child laughed — faint, distant, pure.

Jack: “You really think love can live beyond the surface?”

Jeeny: “It’s the only place it ever lived.”

Host: Silence again — but this time, it was soft, forgiving. Jack looked at her, the corners of his mouth twitching — not a smile, but the ghost of one.

Jack: “You win this one, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “It’s not a game, Jack.”

Jack: “No… maybe it’s a confession.”

Host: The lights dimmed as the projector flickered back to life. On the wall, their unfinished film began to roll — a montage of faces, imperfect and real, eyes that carried pain and wonder in equal measure.

Jeeny reached out, touching Jack’s hand lightly. He didn’t move away.

Jeeny: “See them, Jack? None of them are beautiful. But every one of them is unforgettable.”

Host: Outside, the storm cleared. The city shone beneath a thin sheet of mist, lights glimmering like dreams that refused to die.

And there, in the quiet hum of machines and memories, two souls sat surrounded by imperfection — discovering that maybe beauty was never the beginning, only the echo of something deeper: the recognition of another soul in the dark.