I had my baby outside in a thunderstorm. It was really romantic.

Host:
The night was a wild symphony of thunder and rain. The sky was torn open by lightning, revealing brief flashes of silver against the dark forest. Beneath an old wooden shelter, half-collapsed by time and weather, Jack and Jeeny sat close to the fire’s glow. The flames trembled, their light dancing over wet faces, dripping hair, and mud-streaked boots.

The storm raged outside, violent yet alive. Every clap of thunder seemed to echo something ancient — something primal and pure.

Jack leaned back against the wall, his eyes catching the firelight with a cold glint. Jeeny sat beside him, her hands clasped tightly around a cup of steaming tea, her face soft, her eyes reflecting lightning like distant stars.

Between the crackles of the fire, her voice broke the silence.

Jeeny:
“It’s strange, isn’t it? How life finds beauty even in chaos. I read something once — ‘I had my baby outside in a thunderstorm. It was really romantic.’ Evangeline Lilly said that. I think I understand what she meant.”

Host:
Jack turned his head slowly, the rain hissing against the roof above. His brow furrowed, his voice low, gravelled with doubt.

Jack:
“Romantic? Having a baby in a storm? That sounds like madness, not romance. Pain and fear, not beauty.”

Jeeny:
“You’re hearing the surface, Jack. The storm wasn’t just the weather. It was the world crashing and singing at once — like life itself. Birth in the middle of a tempest — it’s the perfect symbol of existence: pain and wonder, side by side.”

Host:
The fire popped, throwing a spark into the air. Jack’s eyes followed it until it died in the wet dirt. His jaw tightened.

Jack:
“You romanticize suffering too much, Jeeny. There’s no symbolism in pain — it’s just biology, chaos, and chance. The storm doesn’t care. It doesn’t bless or curse. It just exists.”

Jeeny:
“Maybe that’s the point. The storm doesn’t care, and yet we feel it. We give it meaning. That’s what makes us human, Jack. We can turn a moment of fear into a memory of grace.”

Host:
A flash of lightning filled the shelter, outlining their faces in pure white light. For a second, Jack’s expression softened — as if the brightness cracked open something buried within.

Jack:
“You talk like pain is poetry. But when you’ve lived through enough of it, you stop seeing the beauty. You just want it to end.”

Jeeny:
“I’ve lived through it too. The difference is, I don’t want it to end — I want it to mean something. Maybe that’s what that woman meant: she didn’t want her storm to just pass. She wanted to become it. To let it shape her.”

Host:
Jack stared into the fire, his hands flexing slightly. The flames reflected in his grey eyes, softening their steel.

Jack:
“You think giving meaning to pain makes it lighter. But it doesn’t. You still bleed the same.”

Jeeny:
“Yes, but if you know why you bleed, the blood becomes a story, not just a stain.”

Host:
The rain intensified, a symphony of drops against wood and earth. Jeeny’s voice grew softer, almost lost beneath it, but her eyes burned with conviction.

Jeeny:
“I think that’s what romance really is, Jack. Not flowers, not words, not comfort — but the courage to find beauty in the middle of fear. To say, ‘Even now, even here — this means something.’”

Jack:
“Romance?” (He gave a bitter laugh.) “You call that romance? It sounds like delusion. We dress up suffering so it doesn’t break us.”

Jeeny:
“Or maybe we dress it so we can see it clearly. Like putting a frame around a storm — not to deny it, but to admire the lightning.”

Host:
Jack’s fingers traced the edge of a wet beam, leaving streaks of mud on his skin. He seemed to be fighting something inside — not her words, but the memory of something forgotten.

Jack:
“When I was twelve,” he said finally, his voice quiet, “there was a storm like this. My mother and I were trapped on the road, car broken down. She was so calm. She just laughed, said the rain was the sky’s heartbeat. I thought she was insane. But when she died, that’s the sound I remembered — her laugh in the thunder.”

Jeeny:
(whispering) “Maybe that’s why you can’t call it romantic. Because for you, the storm already has a ghost inside it.”

Host:
Jack’s eyes flickered toward her. The firelight trembled between them, like a heartbeat caught in flame.

Jack:
“Maybe. But ghosts don’t make things beautiful, Jeeny. They just make them harder to forget.”

Jeeny:
“Maybe beauty is what’s hard to forget.”

Host:
The thunder rolled again, deep and melancholic, like the voice of the earth itself. The fire burned lower, its glow warmer, softer. Their faces had lost the tension of debate. What remained was tired honesty.

Jack:
“So, what — we’re supposed to find romance in every disaster? Just call it beautiful so it hurts less?”

Jeeny:
“No. We’re supposed to let it change us. There’s a difference. The woman who gave birth in the storm didn’t choose it because it was easy. She called it romantic because it was real — raw and uncontrolled. Because in that moment, she felt alive.”

Jack:
“You think being alive means embracing chaos?”

Jeeny:
“Yes. Because life is chaos. But it’s also the hand you hold through it. The cry of a new child. The light that flashes even when you’re terrified.”

Host:
The rain began to slow, the drops softer now, almost tender. Outside, the world seemed to breathe again. Jack’s shoulders relaxed.

Jack:
“You make it sound like the storm isn’t something to run from — but something to stand inside.”

Jeeny:
“That’s what she did. That’s what we all do, if we’re brave enough. Stand inside the storm, and still find love.”

Jack:
(softly) “Maybe that’s what romance really means — not flowers, but fear you can hold without breaking.”

Jeeny:
(smiling faintly) “Exactly. Love isn’t a shelter from the storm. It’s the hand that keeps you from drowning in it.”

Host:
They sat in silence, the air filled with the scent of rain and smoke. The lightning faded into distant murmurs, like a memory slowly receding.

Jack reached for the tea, now lukewarm, and took a slow sip. His eyes met hers — no longer cold, but reflective, like mirrors catching the last glow of a dying fire.

Jack:
“You win this one, Jeeny.”

Jeeny:
“There are no winners, Jack. Just people trying to make sense of the storm.”

Host:
Outside, a final flash lit the sky, and then — quiet. The world stilled, washed clean.

The camera would linger here — on two figures, tired and transformed, watching the rain fade into silver mist. The storm had ended, but its echo remained — inside their hearts, and in the gentle light of a new morning.

And somewhere, between thunder and tenderness, the truth whispered:
Every storm carries a birth, and every birth — a little lightning.