I am a free lover. I have an inalienable, constitutional and

Host: The sun was bleeding out behind the city’s skyline, staining the windows of an abandoned train station with gold and crimson. Dust floated like forgotten memories through the heavy air. The station clock had stopped long ago at 7:14 — as if time itself had chosen to rest here.

Jack leaned against a rusted pillar, a cigarette dangling loosely between his fingers, its smoke curling like a secret unspoken. Across from him, Jeeny stood by a cracked window, watching the light fade. Her hair shimmered in the dying glow, her eyes steady, reflecting both tenderness and defiance.

Host: They had met again — two souls who saw the world in opposite colors — to discuss a sentence that still burned through centuries, written by a woman who dared to call her heart a sovereign land.

Jeeny: (softly) “Victoria Woodhull once said, ‘I am a free lover. I have an inalienable, constitutional and natural right to love whom I may, to love as long or short a period as I can; to change that love every day if I please.’”

She turned, her voice trembling slightly — not with fear, but conviction.
“Imagine the courage it took to say that in 1871, Jack. A woman declaring her heart belonged to no law but itself.”

Jack: (exhaling smoke) “Courage? Maybe. Or rebellion wrapped in poetry. You call it freedom; I call it chaos.”

Host: The smoke twisted between them like a thin, grey veil — half barrier, half bridge.

Jeeny: “Chaos is just freedom before it learns to dance.”

Jack: (scoffing) “You think love needs liberty? Love thrives on boundaries, Jeeny. Without them, it’s just impulse dressed up as romance. You don’t build anything lasting if you keep changing your heart like a shirt.”

Jeeny: “Why should it last if it isn’t alive? Why should love become a prison just to look respectable?”

Host: The station lights flickered, one by one, as if uncertain whether to glow or surrender.

Jack: “Because promises matter. Because when you say I love you, it’s supposed to mean more than for now. You start breaking that and what’s left? Nothing but moments without meaning.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack — meaning lives in the moment. You mistake permanence for depth. Woodhull wasn’t talking about lust; she was talking about sovereignty — the right to choose, not to wander aimlessly.”

Host: A train moaned in the distance, long abandoned tracks vibrating faintly with its phantom sound. The air shifted — tense, electric.

Jack: “You sound like you want to live without consequence. What happens when that kind of freedom collides with loyalty, or family, or the person who still loves you when you’ve already moved on?”

Jeeny: “It hurts. It always will. But forcing love to stay when it’s gone — that’s a cruelty too. Staying out of guilt is not loyalty; it’s fear.”

Host: Jeeny’s hands trembled, not from weakness, but from the unbearable honesty of her own words. Jack crushed his cigarette, the faint hiss of dying embers echoing like a punctuation mark.

Jack: “You talk like a philosopher, but love isn’t a theory. It’s blood and skin and history. People depend on it. A free lover destroys the very thing love needs most — trust.”

Jeeny: “Trust in what? That someone will never change? That their heart will stay frozen for your comfort? Trust isn’t the promise of forever, Jack — it’s the belief that even if love ends, it was real while it lived.”

Host: Rain began to fall through the broken roof, each drop glinting under a dim lightbulb. The rhythm of it filled the pauses between their words, soft and relentless.

Jack: “And what about responsibility? You think we should just follow our desires wherever they lead? That’s not freedom — that’s indulgence. Even animals do that.”

Jeeny: (sharply) “Animals don’t write poetry about it, Jack! They don’t ache with guilt or dream about eternity. Freedom doesn’t make us animals — it’s what makes us human.”

Host: Lightning cracked across the sky, spilling white light into the station. For a moment, their faces froze in brilliance — one of defiance, the other of disbelief.

Jack: “Tell me, Jeeny, what happens when freedom breaks hearts? When your liberty leaves someone in ruins?”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Then you grieve them. You don’t own them. You don’t owe them your life because they once had your love.”

Host: Her voice shook, but her eyes didn’t. Jack looked at her long, then away, the weight of unspoken memories pressing against his chest.

Jack: “You ever been the one left behind?”

Jeeny: (after a pause) “Yes.”

Jack: “And did freedom make it easier?”

Jeeny: “No. But it made it honest.”

Host: The words lingered in the air, tender and cutting, like smoke caught in light.

Jack: (bitterly) “You sound like you want to rewrite the entire script of love — strip it of duty, of vows, of permanence.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the script needs rewriting. Maybe we’ve turned love into property — and then call it morality when we guard the gate.”

Host: She stepped closer, her silhouette framed by the dying sunlight, her voice low and luminous.

Jeeny: “Woodhull wasn’t asking to betray anyone. She was asking to belong to herself. To not be punished for her heart’s evolution. Isn’t that the purest kind of love — one that’s chosen, not enforced?”

Jack: “And what of those who can’t keep choosing? The ones who need stability to survive?”

Jeeny: “Then they should love that way. Freedom includes the right to stay, Jack. It’s not rebellion — it’s range.”

Host: The rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun. A single beam of moonlight broke through the cracked ceiling, painting them both in silver.

Jack: (softening) “Maybe you’re right. Maybe freedom isn’t the enemy. But love without roots… it scares me.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Roots don’t have to mean chains.”

Host: The silence that followed was thick with surrender — not of belief, but of resistance. Jack’s eyes lowered, his voice quieter now, stripped of edge.

Jack: “You know, when my mother left my father, he used to call her selfish. Said she threw away her vows. But I think now — maybe she was just tired of pretending. Maybe she was brave.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you already understand Woodhull better than you think.”

Host: A faint wind moved through the station, stirring old papers, whispering against the walls like the breath of long-lost voices.

Jeeny: “We keep mistaking control for devotion, Jack. But love is not about possession — it’s about permission.”

Jack: (smiling sadly) “And you call that freedom?”

Jeeny: “No. I call that love finally telling the truth.”

Host: The camera would linger now — two figures bathed in moonlight, their faces softened, the space between them charged with quiet revelation.

Host: And in that silence, one could almost hear Victoria Woodhull’s voice echo across the decades — bold, defiant, and tender — proclaiming that love, like the human spirit, is only sacred when it is free.