I do believe in love; it's wonderful - especially love third time

Host: The bar was almost empty. A dim, golden light spilled over the counter, casting soft halos on half-empty glasses and forgotten dreams. Outside, the rain had just stopped — the asphalt glistened like wet velvet, and a faint smell of earth and smoke lingered in the air.

Jeeny sat by the window, her hands wrapped around a small glass of red wine, the reflection of streetlights trembling in her eyes. Jack sat across from her, a whiskey untouched before him, his grey eyes heavy but alive — that kind of tiredness that only love, and the loss of it, can make beautiful.

Host: It was late — the kind of hour where truth creeps quietly out of people. The piano in the corner had gone silent, but the air still hummed with its memory.

Jeeny: “Robin Williams once said, ‘I do believe in love; it’s wonderful — especially love third time around, it’s even more precious.’ I think about that a lot. The idea that love can survive all the wreckage, come back softer, truer.”

Jack: “Third time around, huh? That’s a lot of faith for something that’s broken twice.”

Jeeny: “Or a lot of courage. Maybe the third time isn’t about starting over. Maybe it’s about understanding what you couldn’t before.”

Jack: “Or it’s about desperation — people trying to rewrite the same story hoping for a different ending.”

Jeeny: “You always see love as a calculation, don’t you?”

Jack: “No, I see it as chemistry — unpredictable, explosive, beautiful for a while, but it burns out. You don’t pour gasoline on something that already caught fire twice.”

Jeeny: “But you do if you believe the fire can keep you warm this time.”

Host: A car passed outside, its headlights sweeping across their faces like a brief spotlight — a silent witness to their private play. Jeeny’s voice softened; Jack’s jawline tensed as if memory had weight.

Jeeny: “Maybe love’s not supposed to last in the same form. Maybe it just changes shape. The first time, it’s naive. The second time, it’s revenge. But the third time…”

Jack: “The third time?”

Jeeny: “It’s grace. It’s knowing how fragile the heart is — and still offering it.”

Jack: “That sounds like surrender.”

Jeeny: “It is. But surrender isn’t defeat. It’s choosing to trust again — even when you know the cost.”

Host: Jack looked down, his fingers tracing the rim of the glass. The whiskey caught the light, flickering like fire in a small universe of amber.

Jack: “You ever think love just changes us, not the world? Like every heartbreak is just training — emotional weightlifting?”

Jeeny: “Of course it changes us. Every love carves something out — or puts something back in. But the point isn’t whether it lasts forever. The point is whether it leaves you kinder.”

Jack: “Kindness doesn’t protect you from pain.”

Jeeny: “No. But bitterness doesn’t protect you either. It just keeps you alone.”

Host: The rain began again, faintly, tapping like fingers on the glass — an echo of the rhythm of their conversation. The bar light dimmed slightly, and the bartender, half-asleep, wiped the counter with slow, absent motions.

Jack: “You make it sound like pain is a virtue.”

Jeeny: “Not a virtue. A teacher. The first love teaches you excitement. The second teaches you loss. But the third…”

Jack: “The third?”

Jeeny: “Teaches you peace.”

Jack: “Peace?” He laughed softly, almost bitterly. “I don’t know anyone at peace with love. Not really.”

Jeeny: “That’s because you confuse peace with boredom. Sometimes, the most amazing love doesn’t feel like a fire. It feels like a quiet room after a storm — two people sitting in silence, and it’s enough.”

Host: A long pause. Jack’s eyes drifted toward the window, where the raindrops merged and rolled down like tiny stories reconnecting.

Jack: “You know, I did try again. After the divorce. I thought maybe I could start fresh. But all I saw was her ghost in every laugh, every argument. I couldn’t see the new person — only the past.”

Jeeny: “That’s not failure, Jack. That’s memory doing its job. It reminds you what not to destroy this time.”

Jack: “And what if I destroy it anyway?”

Jeeny: “Then love you again. That’s the thing — love isn’t a guarantee, it’s a gamble. But it’s the only gamble that makes being alive worth it.”

Host: The air felt heavier now, filled with unspoken confessions. Jeeny leaned forward, her eyes reflecting something raw and unguarded — the kind of look that could both heal and hurt.

Jeeny: “My father loved three times. The first broke him. The second nearly killed him. But the third — that one made him gentle. I used to think he was foolish for trying again. Now I think he was the bravest man I’ve ever known.”

Jack: “So that’s what you believe? That love gets better with practice?”

Jeeny: “Not better. Deeper. The first love shows you who you want to be. The second shows you who you really are. The third forgives both.”

Jack: “And if you never find the third?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you become it — for yourself.”

Host: Jack’s eyes flickered — something between a smirk and sorrow. He raised his glass, finally taking a slow sip. The whiskey burned, but in a way that felt almost cleansing.

Jack: “Maybe Robin Williams was right then. Love’s amazing — not because it’s new, but because it dares to come back.”

Jeeny: “Yes. It’s the comeback that makes it precious. Anyone can fall once. It takes real courage to fall again — and still believe in the landing.”

Jack: “And when it works?”

Jeeny: “Then it’s no longer about fire. It’s about warmth. No longer about forever — but about now.”

Host: The rain outside finally ceased, and the clouds parted just enough to let a thin ribbon of moonlight spill into the bar. It painted both their faces in silver, as if blessing their quiet truce.

Jack: “You know, maybe love isn’t meant to be understood. Maybe it’s meant to be lived — broken, rebuilt, forgiven.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every time it dies, it teaches you how to love better next time. That’s why the third is precious — it’s love that’s survived its own funeral.”

Host: Jack smiled — not the smile of youth, but of a man who had made peace with imperfection. He looked at Jeeny, and for the first time, the weariness in his eyes softened.

Jack: “So what now?”

Jeeny: “Now?” She smiled faintly. “Now we let the rain dry. And maybe… start again.”

Host: The camera would drift upward — past the window, past the faint glow of streetlights, into the open sky where the storm had broken. Below, two souls sat in a small bar, the remnants of laughter and pain mixing like smoke in still air.

Love — not perfect, not endless, but alive — circled quietly between them.
And somewhere in that moment, time itself paused — amazed.