I don't know what that is because to me, Feb. 14 is Rob Thomas'

Host: The city hummed beneath a cold February sky, its streets soaked in neon and the faint aroma of cheap roses. A restaurant window flickered with pink light, heart-shaped balloons pressed against the glass like ghosts of romance. Inside, Jack and Jeeny sat opposite each other in a small corner booth, a candle flame trembling between them — fragile, uncertain, yet alive.

Jack: (smirking) “Valentine’s Day. Look around, Jeeny — the machine at work. Love on sale, half-priced roses, pre-written confessions. The world wears a mask and calls it sincerity.”

Jeeny: (softly, tracing the edge of her cup) “Or maybe, Jack, it’s people trying to remind themselves that love still exists — even if they have to buy the illusion for a night. Isn’t that something beautiful in itself?”

Host: The rain began to tap gently against the window, a rhythmic sound like a heartbeat — fragile, repetitive, almost deliberate. Jeeny’s eyes glimmered in the candlelight, reflecting both sadness and faith. Jack leaned back, his expression a mixture of irony and fatigue.

Jack: “Beautiful? It’s delusion. Nikki Glaser had it right — she said, ‘I don’t know what that is because to me, Feb. 14 is Rob Thomas’ birthday.’ She turned the whole thing on its head — refused to participate in the collective performance. That’s honesty.”

Jeeny: “Honesty isn’t always rebellion, Jack. Sometimes it’s participation. Maybe she celebrates Rob Thomas because it’s a way to find joy in something others drown in expectation. But it doesn’t mean the rest of us are fools for wanting to feel loved.”

Host: The candle flame wavered, stretching toward the ceiling as if listening. The restaurant was half-empty, the sound of distant laughter fading like a memory of youth.

Jack: “But that’s the point. Why does a date dictate when to love? Why do people need a calendar to feel what should be timeless? It’s all marketing — the same system that tells you to feel inadequate without diamonds.”

Jeeny: “And yet, people buy the diamonds. People send the letters. They do it because it still means something to them. You can’t strip meaning from an act just because someone sold it first. If that were true, every wedding, every birthday, every holiday would be meaningless too.”

Jack: (leaning forward) “Maybe they are. Maybe we’ve replaced genuine emotion with ritualized guilt. You forget your partner’s needs 364 days a year, but one box of chocolates fixes it all. That’s the illusion of love — not the proof of it.”

Host: A waiter passed by, leaving behind a faint trail of perfume and the quiet clink of glasses. The air between them thickened. Jeeny’s hands clenched, then relaxed around her cup.

Jeeny: “Do you know what’s funny, Jack? You talk about illusion like you’re immune to it. But even cynicism is an illusion — a way to protect yourself from disappointment. Maybe Valentine’s Day isn’t about truth or lies. Maybe it’s about hope. About the desperate human need to say, I still care, even when the world has grown tired.”

Jack: “Hope is just the polite term for denial. People cling to it because facing emptiness terrifies them.”

Jeeny: “Then what’s left, Jack? If we strip everything down to emptiness, to your kind of truth, where does that leave us? History is filled with people who believed in symbols. The ancient Greeks celebrated Eros, the Romans had Lupercalia, the Japanese give chocolates on February 14 — all for love, not logic. Are they all wrong?”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. His eyes — those cold, gray eyes — softened, if only slightly. He looked past Jeeny, out into the street, where a man stood under a bus stop, holding a bouquet that was slowly wilting in the rain.

Jack: “Maybe not wrong. Just desperate. We keep inventing rituals to distract ourselves from how fleeting connection really is.”

Jeeny: “Fleeting doesn’t mean worthless. The cherry blossoms fall, and the Japanese still celebrate them — not because they last, but because they end. Maybe love’s the same.”

Host: The silence hung heavy. The rain outside grew stronger, streaking down the window like liquid memory. A faint tune played in the background — “Smooth” by Rob Thomas. Ironic. Fitting.

Jack: (half-laughing) “Maybe Nikki was right after all. Maybe celebrating Rob Thomas is the sanest thing one can do on Valentine’s Day — no pretense, just music.”

Jeeny: “But even that’s a ritual, Jack. You celebrate what you love — whether it’s a person, an artist, or a memory. It’s the same longing, dressed differently.”

Jack: “So what you’re saying is… even rebellion is a form of belief.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. When Nikki refuses to acknowledge Valentine’s Day, she’s not rejecting love. She’s redefining it — making it her own. Maybe that’s what all of us should do.”

Host: The candle flickered wildly as if a small wind had passed through the room. Outside, a couple ran through the rain, laughing, holding a single umbrella that wasn’t quite enough to keep them dry. Jeeny watched them, her lips curving into a faint smile.

Jeeny: “You see them? That’s why we do it. Not because it’s rational — but because it’s human. We keep trying, again and again, even when we know the rain will fall.”

Jack: “You think that’s bravery?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s love.”

Host: A long pause. Jack stared at the candle, its flame trembling like a question. For a moment, his eyes seemed to reflect something softer — a buried warmth beneath the cynicism.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, my mother used to tape paper hearts to my lunchbox. Every year, without fail. I used to throw them away before anyone saw. I told myself it was stupid, childish. But now — now I kind of wish I’d kept one.”

Jeeny: (gently) “That’s the thing about love. It embarrasses us until it’s gone. Then we realize it was the only real thing we ever had.”

Host: The candlelight dimmed as the storm outside began to quiet. The restaurant had emptied, leaving behind only the sound of raindrops easing into stillness. A faint warmth lingered between them — not quite romantic, not quite friendship, but something raw and human.

Jack: “So maybe we both agree then. February 14 doesn’t belong to Hallmark or Rob Thomas — it belongs to whoever dares to define it.”

Jeeny: “Yes. To whoever still believes love can be made real, even for a night.”

Host: They sat in silence, watching as the last of the rain slid down the glass, merging into the faint reflection of their faces. The candle burned low — a small, stubborn light refusing to die. Outside, the city breathed, alive again, its streets shimmering with the echo of forgotten promises.

And somewhere in the distance, Rob Thomas’s voice lingered —
“It’s just like the ocean under the moon…”

The music faded, leaving only the soft rhythm of their hearts, beating quietly in the dark — two souls who had, for a moment, found meaning in the same day.