I go to Saint Barth in the French West Indies for two weeks each

Host: The harbor of Saint Barthélemy shimmered beneath a velvet twilight, where the last trace of sunlight melted into a sea of liquid gold. The faint sound of waves brushed against the docks, and the scent of salt, wine, and blooming frangipani hung heavy in the air. Lanterns flickered along the pier, swaying gently in the soft breeze.

Jack and Jeeny sat at a small table on a weathered terrace, overlooking the marina. Two glasses of wine glowed like captured sunsets between them. A sailboat named Solitude rocked lazily nearby, its reflection quivering on the darkening water.

Host: The world had slowed to a whisper — only the hush of the ocean and the beating of unseen hearts remained.

Jeeny: “Brooke Burke once said, ‘I go to Saint Barth in the French West Indies for two weeks each year. That place is amazing. Amazing people, beautiful beaches, great wine, wonderful harbors... It’s incredibly romantic.’”

Jack: (swirls his wine, smirking faintly) “Ah yes, the gospel according to paradise. Beautiful beaches, great wine, romantic sunsets. You can sell that line on a travel poster.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Not everything worth saying needs to be profound. Sometimes beauty speaks for itself.”

Jack: “You call that beauty? Sounds more like privilege.”

Host: The waves murmured beneath the deck, as if echoing his doubt. A small yacht drifted by, its lights glimmering like fireflies on the water. Jeeny’s gaze stayed fixed on the horizon, her eyes glowing faintly in the soft amber light.

Jeeny: “You think paradise is only for the rich, Jack?”

Jack: “I think paradise is just an illusion people buy to forget who they are.”

Jeeny: (leans forward) “And what if forgetting, even for a moment, is healing? What if paradise isn’t escape, but remembrance — of how it feels to breathe without weight?”

Jack: “You don’t need white sand and Bordeaux for that. Just a bit of perspective. But people come here chasing meaning like it’s imported.”

Jeeny: “And yet here you are, drinking imported meaning.”

Host: A soft laugh escaped her, warm and effortless. Jack cracked a smile despite himself. The wind caught the edge of the tablecloth, lifting it slightly before letting it fall again. Somewhere nearby, a musician plucked a slow tune on a guitar, the melody threading through their words.

Jeeny: “Brooke wasn’t just talking about a vacation. She was talking about the kind of stillness that beauty can teach you — the way a place can remind you of love, of simplicity, of being small in the face of something vast.”

Jack: “You’re giving too much credit to the ocean. The sea doesn’t care about us. It’s beautiful because it’s indifferent.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why it humbles you. It doesn’t care who you are, what you’ve done, or what you own. It just is. And somehow, in that indifference, you feel seen.”

Host: The sky deepened — a dark blue canvas speckled with faint stars. The moonlight rippled across the water, painting trembling silver paths that led nowhere and everywhere.

Jack: “Funny thing, though. People talk about paradise like it’s eternal. But give it time, and they start checking their phones, arguing over the bill, missing home.”

Jeeny: “Because we mistake paradise for permanence. It’s not meant to last — it’s meant to awaken. That’s the tragedy and the gift.”

Jack: “So what, two weeks of bliss and you come back to chaos more enlightened?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes, yes. You can’t live in paradise. But you can let it live in you.”

Host: Her voice drifted softly with the breeze, carrying the weight of something ancient — the kind of quiet wisdom that comes not from books, but from seeing beauty without owning it. Jack looked at her, his usual skepticism folding into contemplation.

Jack: “You really believe that, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “I do. Because every beautiful thing I’ve ever known was temporary — and that’s what made it precious. A wave, a sunset, a kiss, even love. You only feel their worth when they leave.”

Jack: “That’s a poetic way to justify loss.”

Jeeny: “Or a truthful way to honor it.”

Host: A long pause lingered between them, filled by the sound of the sea and the distant clinking of glasses. The air shimmered faintly with salt and candlelight.

Jack: “You know… I once came to a place like this. Greece, years ago. I thought it would change me. Instead, I spent most of the time trying to photograph it — as if I could own it through pixels.”

Jeeny: “Did it work?”

Jack: (shakes his head) “No. The photos looked flat. I realized later that I never actually looked at it. I was too busy trying to prove I was there.”

Jeeny: “That’s what happens when you try to capture paradise instead of living it.”

Jack: “So what’s the secret then, Jeeny? How do you live it?”

Jeeny: “By surrendering to it. By letting the breeze mess your hair, by tasting the salt, by not needing to record it. You live it by forgetting yourself.”

Host: The music from the nearby café swelled — a slow, romantic rhythm that seemed to pulse in time with the tide. Jeeny closed her eyes for a moment, breathing deeply, her face bathed in moonlight.

Jeeny: “Look around, Jack. Everything here — the sea, the wine, the laughter — it’s not trying to be perfect. It’s just being. That’s the essence of romance. Not flowers and vows, but presence.”

Jack: “Romance as presence… that’s a new one.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t it? Maybe Brooke wasn’t describing the place at all. Maybe she was describing the state of being that place inspired in her — when beauty dissolves the walls we build around ourselves.”

Host: Jack’s eyes softened. He leaned back in his chair, the breeze touching his face, the music wrapping around him like memory. He looked toward the horizon, where the dark sea kissed the silver edge of the moon.

Jack: “You know, for once, I don’t want to argue.”

Jeeny: “Then don’t. Just feel.”

Jack: (after a pause) “It’s… beautiful.”

Jeeny: “Yes.”

Host: The word hung like a note in the air — fragile, unadorned, and perfect. The harbor lights shimmered across their faces; boats rocked gently in rhythm to the tide.

Jeeny: “Do you feel that, Jack? The warmth, the breeze, the sound of the water? That’s all there is. That’s all there needs to be.”

Jack: “It’s… enough.”

Host: The camera pulled back slowly — the two of them now small figures against the vast tapestry of the Caribbean night. Above them, the stars scattered like spilled diamonds across the sky. The music faded into the hum of the ocean, leaving only the rhythm of the waves and the quiet murmur of hearts learning to rest.

Host: And as the wind whispered through the palms, carrying the salt and softness of the sea, it seemed the island itself leaned closer to listen — to this small, human truth that paradise is not a place you go to, but a moment you finally let yourself feel.