I don't know if there are many misconceptions. One is that my

Host: The afternoon sun slid gently across the windowpane, spilling a slow gold over the bookshelves of a quiet London café. Outside, the streets hummed with life — buses, bicycles, footsteps — all flowing in their own rhythms. Inside, the air smelled of espresso and pages, an odd mix of warmth and memory.

Jeeny sat at a corner table, her notebook open, scribbling something between fact and fiction. Across from her, Jack stirred his coffee without drinking, his expression unreadable, like a man who had stopped trusting even his own thoughts.

Between them lay a newspaper clipping, folded and creased, an interview with Helen Baxendale. The headline read: “I don’t know if there are many misconceptions. One is that my birthday is on Valentine’s Day. It’s on 7 June.”

Jeeny traced the quote with her finger, as if trying to feel its texture — the quiet humor, the unspoken philosophy behind it.

Jeeny: (smiling softly) Isn’t it strange how something so small — like your birthday — can become a misconception that follows you your whole life?

Jack: (dryly) People believe what they want to believe. Especially if it makes the story prettier. Valentine’s Day sounds more romantic than 7 June.

Jeeny: (laughs lightly) Maybe. But that’s the point, isn’t it? People prefer the myth over the truth.

Jack: (leans back, eyes narrowing) Because the truth is boring, Jeeny. Myths give meaning. Facts give boundaries.

Host: The sunlight flickered, caught by a passing bus, cutting their faces into brief shadows. There was a stillness between them — not silence, but a space where honesty waited to be heard.

Jeeny: But isn’t it dangerous, Jack? To let the myth replace the person? Imagine people celebrating your life on the wrong day, for the wrong reason.

Jack: Happens all the time. We do it to heroes, actors, politicians, even lovers. We remember what’s convenient, not what’s true.

Jeeny: (pensively) You sound like someone who’s been misremembered.

Jack: (chuckles bitterly) Maybe I have. Maybe everyone has.

Host: A silence settles, like dust on an old photograph. Jeeny looks at him — really looks — as though she’s trying to see the man beyond his cynicism.

Jeeny: You ever wonder what your own misconception might be? What people get wrong about you?

Jack: (smirks) Easy. They think I don’t care.

Jeeny: (tilts head) And do you?

Jack: (shrugs) Too much, probably. That’s why I hide it. Caring’s like glass — it only looks strong until it breaks.

Jeeny: (smiles sadly) That’s your myth, then. The man who doesn’t care because he’s too afraid to show it.

Jack: (mockingly) And yours?

Jeeny: That I’m hopeful all the time. That I believe people can’t hurt each other on purpose.

Jack: (leans in, softly) And you don’t?

Jeeny: (looks away) Not anymore.

Host: The café hums quietly — the sound of cups, the grind of beans, the murmur of two strangers talking about truth as if it were love.

Jack: (after a pause) You know, there’s something poetic about that quote. Baxendale correcting the world — not with anger, not with ego, just with a fact. A gentle truth.

Jeeny: (nods) Yes. It’s not about the birthday. It’s about identity. The way she said it — almost apologetically, as if she’s learned to live with being misunderstood.

Jack: (quietly) Maybe that’s what being known really means — being misunderstood accurately.

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) That’s dark.

Jack: (sips his coffee) It’s real. People don’t want the truth; they want the version that fits their comfort. You see it everywhere — actors, leaders, even friends.

Jeeny: (nods slowly) And lovers.

Host: Her voice trembles, the words soft but weighted, landing between them like a confession. Jack’s eyes flicker, a hint of guilt, or maybe memory.

Jack: (after a pause) You mean when we imagine someone to be perfect, and then get angry when they’re not?

Jeeny: Exactly. That’s how misconceptions are born — out of hope, not hatred.

Jack: (leans forward) So the question is — do we blame the world for misunderstanding us, or ourselves for pretending to be something else?

Jeeny: (softly) Maybe both.

Host: Outside, the sky had turned lavender, the light thinning into early evening. The city’s noise grew louder, but in the café, time seemed to pause.

Jeeny: (pensively) I think what I love most about that quote is its honesty. She doesn’t try to sound profound. She just corrects a mistake. There’s something pure about that.

Jack: (nods slowly) Yeah. Like saying, “I’m not who you think I am, but I’m not angry about it.”

Jeeny: (smiles) Maybe that’s what wisdom sounds like — when truth no longer needs to defend itself.

Jack: (quietly) You ever get tired of correcting people’s version of you?

Jeeny: (looking out the window) Sometimes. But then I think — maybe every misconception is just another person’s way of trying to understand me. Even if they get it wrong.

Jack: (softly) That’s generous of you.

Jeeny: (turns to him) And you, Jack? You forgive people for getting you wrong?

Jack: (after a long pause) I’m still learning to forgive myself for letting them.

Host: The light flickers once, catching the steam from their cups, turning it into a thin veil of gold. The moment feels both fragile and infinite.

Jeeny: (suddenly playful) So if the world thought your birthday was on Valentine’s Day, would you correct them?

Jack: (smirks) Depends. Would there be cake involved?

Jeeny: (laughs) You’d let the myth live, then.

Jack: Maybe. Sometimes the lie is kinder than the truth.

Jeeny: (gently) But don’t you think the truth, however small, is worth protecting?

Jack: (stares into his cup) Maybe. But only if you still know who you are when no one else does.

Jeeny: (softly) That’s the hard part, isn’t it? Staying yourself when the world’s idea of you feels easier to live with.

Host: The wind outside rattles the door, and a single leaf drifts in — landing between them, crumpled and bright.

Jack reaches for it, turns it in his hand, and for the first time that afternoon, he smiles — not bitterly, but genuinely, as if something inside him had just understood.

Jack: (quietly) Maybe that’s what Helen meant. Not that people were wrong, but that she just wanted to exist truthfully, even in something as small as a date.

Jeeny: (nods) Yes. Because truth, no matter how trivial, anchors you to your own life.

Host: They sit in silence, the sun slipping lower, the city’s hum returning. Outside, people hurry, cars flash, time moves on — but inside, two souls rest in the quiet grace of small truths.

And as the camera pulls back, the café becomes just another window of light in the sprawling cityscape — a place where one woman’s correction about her birthday became a quiet reminder that truth, however small, is never irrelevant.

Because sometimes, the most human thing we can say to the world is simply —

“That’s not quite right. Let me tell you who I really am.”