I have never dated. I have no experience. It's terrible, and I'm

Host: The rain had been falling since morning, thin and relentless, turning the city into a watercolor — colors bleeding softly into one another, outlines lost in the mist. The café near the corner of the narrow street was almost empty. Its windows fogged, the smell of coffee and old wood drifting through the warm air.

At the corner table, Jeeny sat alone, stirring her drink though it had long gone cold. A small notebook lay open beside her, its pages blank but for a single line written in delicate handwriting: “I have never dated. I have no experience. It’s terrible, and I’m scared to death of it, too, at the same time.” — Bo Derek.

The door opened with a soft jingle. Jack walked in, tall and quiet, his coat damp, his eyes scanning the room until they found her. He crossed the distance in a few steps and sat opposite her, brushing rain from his sleeves.

For a while, neither spoke. The sound of the rain filled the silence, soft and continuous — like time itself refusing to pause.

Jeeny: “Have you ever been afraid of love, Jack?”

Jack: He gave a short laugh, dry and low. “Afraid of love? No. Afraid of what comes after it — yes.”

Jeeny: “That’s not what I mean.” She closed the notebook gently. “I mean afraid of the idea itself. The thought of it. The closeness. The possibility of… failing at something everyone else seems to know instinctively.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his hands clasped, eyes fixed on the blurred streetlights outside.

Jack: “You’re talking like someone who’s never been hurt. People fear love because they’ve learned what it costs. You fear it because you’ve never paid the price.”

Jeeny: “And that makes it easier?” she asked quietly. “To have never tried?”

Jack: “It makes it safer.”

Host: The rain tapped harder now, drumming against the windowpane like restless fingers. Jeeny looked down at her hands — slender, trembling slightly.

Jeeny: “Bo Derek said she’s terrified because she’s never dated. I understand that. You can’t fear loss if you’ve never loved, but you can still fear the unknown — the awkwardness, the vulnerability, the possibility that you’ll mess it up simply because you don’t know how to begin.”

Jack: “That’s the trick, Jeeny. Nobody knows how to begin. We just pretend. We stumble through the rituals — dinner, jokes, small confessions — like actors reading lines we didn’t write.”

Jeeny: “Then why do it at all?”

Jack: “Because the script changes you,” he said softly. “Even when the ending’s bad.”

Host: The light above their table flickered, catching the faintest shimmer of moisture in Jack’s hair. The café was nearly silent now — the last of the customers gone, the waitress sweeping near the counter, her movements unhurried.

Jeeny: “I think some people are afraid of being known,” she said, tracing the rim of her cup. “Because once someone truly sees you — not the polished version, not the curated pieces — then they can leave. And if they leave, it feels like the world saw you and said, ‘no thanks.’”

Jack: “And some people are afraid of not being known,” he replied. “Because if no one ever gets close, you can spend your whole life pretending you’re fine.”

Host: Her eyes met his. For a moment, the air between them changed — grew heavier, warmer, almost electric. Outside, a car passed, its headlights sweeping across their faces, illuminating the truth neither of them dared name.

Jeeny: “Do you think love is worth the fear?”

Jack: “That depends,” he said. “Are you asking as someone who wants to fall in love or as someone who wants to understand it?”

Jeeny: “Both.”

Jack: “Then yes,” he said after a pause. “Because the fear is part of the proof that you’re still alive.”

Host: She smiled faintly, but her eyes stayed on the rain.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve been there.”

Jack: “I have,” he said. “And I’ve lost. That’s why I understand the terror in Bo Derek’s words. When you’ve never loved, you fear what you don’t know. When you have, you fear knowing it too well.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s the same fear,” she whispered. “The fear of exposure — of being stripped of the safety of solitude.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s the opposite — the fear of never being seen at all.”

Host: A moment of silence stretched, filled with the rhythm of falling rain. Jeeny’s reflection trembled in the window, overlaid by the distant glow of streetlights — a face both searching and uncertain.

Jeeny: “I wonder what it’s like,” she said finally. “To be loved without fear. To walk into it without shaking.”

Jack: “It doesn’t exist,” he said gently. “Love without fear isn’t love — it’s fantasy. The fear’s what makes it real. It’s the risk that gives it weight.”

Jeeny: “So what you’re saying is, if I wait until I’m not afraid, I’ll wait forever.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Host: The clock above the counter ticked softly, measuring the distance between confession and courage. Jeeny turned her notebook toward him, the quote still glimmering faintly in the lamplight.

Jeeny: “She said it’s terrible and she’s scared to death. That’s honesty, isn’t it?”

Jack: “It’s rare,” he said. “Most people pretend confidence because they think love rewards the brave. But maybe it rewards the honest.”

Jeeny: “You think fear can be honest?”

Jack: “It’s the most honest thing we have. It means you care.”

Host: The rain began to ease, softening into a whisper. The air smelled of wet pavement and coffee cooling in porcelain. The city’s lights outside shimmered, blurred, as if the world itself had decided to exhale.

Jeeny: “You know what scares me the most?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “That I’ll never let anyone in — not because no one tries, but because I’ll keep building walls and calling them safety.”

Jack: “Then maybe you should start small,” he said. “Let someone in halfway. Fear doesn’t disappear. You just move through it, one door at a time.”

Jeeny: “And if they leave?”

Jack: “Then at least the doors were open.”

Host: She smiled — not with joy, but with that rare, trembling kind of acceptance that looks almost like peace. The last of the rain tapped against the glass — a slow, rhythmic applause for the courage of the uncertain.

Jack finished his drink, the ice melting quietly at the bottom. He stood, put on his coat, then looked down at her.

Jack: “You don’t need experience to love, Jeeny. You just need presence. The rest — the fear, the failure, the trembling — it’s all part of learning how to stay.”

Jeeny: “And what if I can’t?”

Jack: “Then at least you’ll have tried. And maybe that’s all love ever asks.”

Host: The door opened, and the sound of the city — rain subsiding, life resuming — drifted in. He paused at the threshold, looked back once, and smiled faintly.

Jeeny sat in the quiet that followed, her notebook open before her, the ink of Bo Derek’s words gleaming faintly in the dim light.

She picked up her pen, hesitated, then wrote beneath the quote:

“Maybe fear is just love waiting for a chance.”

Host: Outside, the sky began to clear — pale silver, like a heart unclenching. The reflection of the city lights shimmered on the wet pavement, and for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel quite so alone.

Because sometimes, fear isn’t a wall — it’s a doorway.
And trembling is simply the body remembering that to open it is to live.