I don't get off on romantic parts. But I often think if I had had

Host:
The studio lights hummed above the empty soundstage, their glow pale and distant, falling across half-constructed sets and forgotten props. The smell of dust, coffee, and old wood lingered in the air — the scent of stories built and dismantled too many times to count.

In the center of it all, beneath the halo of one flickering spotlight, Jack sat in a worn director’s chair, his hands wrapped around a paper coffee cup, staring into nothing. Beside him, Jeeny reclined on a folding chair, her bare feet propped on a crate labeled "HEARTBREAK — TAKE 7."

They were surrounded by silence — the kind that lives in spaces once filled with voices.

Jeeny:
“Do you remember that Morgan Freeman quote? ‘I don’t get off on romantic parts. But I often think if I had had my dental work done early on, well, maybe.’”

Host:
Her voice echoed softly across the set, playful yet tinged with meaning. Jack glanced at her — one eyebrow raised, the ghost of a smirk hiding beneath fatigue.

Jack:
“Yeah. Classic Freeman. Leave it to him to make a philosophy out of dental regrets.”

Jeeny:
“It’s funny, though, isn’t it? How he says he doesn’t get off on romance — like it’s a genre, a trick, something he could’ve faked if he’d had the right smile.”

Jack:
“Romance is a trick. It’s lighting, timing, and camera angles. You shoot it in the right light, and anything looks like love.”

Jeeny:
“Maybe that’s your problem, Jack. You think love is something you can direct.”

Jack:
“And you think it’s something that just happens. Like improv with better lighting.”

Host:
The spotlight flickered again, casting their faces in momentary chiaroscuro — half truth, half shadow. Jeeny tilted her head, studying him with an almost mischievous calm.

Jeeny:
“So you’re saying Morgan Freeman was right? That romance just isn’t your thing?”

Jack:
“Romance isn’t my thing because I don’t believe in pretending. I don’t want to perform affection. I want to mean it. But meaning it ruins the scene.”

Jeeny:
(smiling faintly) “You sound like you’ve rehearsed that line.”

Jack:
“I’ve lived that line.”

Host:
Her smile faded, replaced by something quieter — something that saw the cracks in his cynicism.

Jeeny:
“You know, I think that’s what Freeman meant. Not about the teeth, but about timing. About how the smallest flaw convinces you you’re not fit for romance — on screen or off.”

Jack:
“So you think he’s talking about insecurity?”

Jeeny:
“Of course. It’s never about teeth, Jack. It’s about worth. About believing you deserve to play the part.”

Host:
A faint hum of the air vents filled the silence, like a forgotten orchestra tuning beneath the weight of conversation. Jack leaned back, exhaling a breath that sounded half like laughter, half like surrender.

Jack:
“You know, I never thought about it that way. Maybe I was never cast in the romantic role because I didn’t believe I could be the lead.”

Jeeny:
“Exactly. You kept auditioning for the villain — it felt safer. Less to lose when the credits roll.”

Jack:
“I don’t like endings.”

Jeeny:
“No one does. But everyone wants the scene where they’re chosen.”

Host:
Her words hung there, raw and human, echoing off the empty walls of the soundstage. The spotlight buzzed, a faint reminder that even electricity can get lonely.

Jack:
“You know what’s funny? The audience always wants the kiss. They never want the conversation that comes after — the awkward one, where someone admits they’re terrified of being loved.”

Jeeny:
“Because the kiss is clean. It’s cinematic. The fear is real.”

Jack:
“So maybe I’ve been trying to avoid real.”

Jeeny:
“And calling it philosophy to make it sound noble.”

Host:
Jack laughed — a rough, reluctant sound that seemed to shake something loose inside him.

Jack:
“You should’ve been a writer, Jeeny.”

Jeeny:
“I am. You’re just the one pretending to be the story.”

Host:
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It pulsed — with old hurts, missed chances, and the strange intimacy of two people dissecting what they’ll never say directly.

Jeeny reached for the coffee cup beside her, took a sip, then said softly:

Jeeny:
“Maybe that’s what romance really is — not the parts we play, but the pauses we can’t explain. The way someone looks at you between lines. The way silence doesn’t feel like absence.”

Jack:
“And here I thought romance was just two people pretending not to die alone.”

Jeeny:
“No, Jack. That’s survival. Romance is what happens when survival starts to feel like living.”

Host:
He looked at her — really looked — and for a fleeting instant, his usual armor cracked. Something vulnerable flickered in his eyes, quickly hidden again behind that familiar wall of detachment.

Jack:
“You ever think I could’ve been good at it?”

Jeeny:
“At what?”

Jack:
“Romance. The kind people remember. The kind with… music.”

Jeeny:
(softly) “You still can be. You just have to stop directing it like a scene.”

Host:
A low creak echoed through the rafters — the sound of the building exhaling. The fire exit light flickered in the corner like a dying star.

Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

Jack:
“I guess that’s what Freeman was really saying — that the smallest flaw, the smallest thing we think disqualifies us, becomes the whole story.”

Jeeny:
“And the tragedy is that no one else notices it but us.”

Jack:
“Maybe that’s why I hate romantic parts. They make me confront everything I’ve convinced myself I can’t be.”

Jeeny:
“Then maybe that’s exactly why you should love them.”

Host:
The spotlight dimmed slightly, as if the room itself had grown gentler.

Jeeny stood, walked to the center of the set — where a single mark of tape on the floor read ‘Scene One: The Beginning.’

She turned, her silhouette cut sharp against the empty backdrop.

Jeeny:
“You know what I think, Jack? Every romantic role is just a rehearsal for honesty. You keep calling it performance, but it’s not. It’s confession.”

Jack:
“Confession?”

Jeeny:
“Yes. Every ‘I love you’ is really just a way of saying, ‘Please don’t see how scared I am.’”

Jack:
(smiling) “You think that’s romantic?”

Jeeny:
“I think it’s human.”

Host:
She stepped closer, until the space between them was charged with unspoken electricity. The light trembled, as if the entire studio were holding its breath.

Jeeny:
“You say you don’t get off on romantic parts. But maybe that’s because you’ve never played one honestly. You’ve only ever acted them.”

Jack:
“And what would happen if I stopped acting?”

Jeeny:
“Then the film would finally feel real.”

Host:
For a long moment, neither moved. Then, slowly, Jack reached out, touched the edge of her hand — just enough to feel the warmth of it. No music, no camera angle. Just contact.

Jack:
“Maybe I should’ve gotten the dental work after all.”

Jeeny:
(laughing softly) “It’s not your teeth, Jack. It’s your heart.”

Jack:
“Always was, wasn’t it?”

Jeeny:
“Always.”

Host:
The lights faded until only the faint glow of the fire exit remained. The soundstage exhaled one last sigh — tired, infinite, beautiful.

Two silhouettes lingered there — one laughing, one listening — framed by the quiet truth of people who finally stopped performing.

And as the camera pulled back, the last words rose like a whisper through the dark:

Host (softly):
Romance isn’t about perfect teeth,
or perfect lines.
It’s the courage to stop acting,
and to love what’s flawed —
because it’s real.