I know April, May and June are a few unbearable months, and

Host: The summer night was thick with heat, the kind that sticks to the skin like guilt. Crickets hummed in the darkness, and the air smelled of dust, salt, and the faint sweetness of jasmine carried from a nearby garden. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked, then silence returned — a heavy, languid quiet.

Beside a public pool, its surface trembling under the pale moonlight, two figures sat on the tiles — their reflections swaying softly in the blue water.

Jack, his shirt clinging to his back, looked irritated by everything: the heat, the humidity, the noise of his own breath. Jeeny, barefoot, dangled her legs in the water, her toes breaking the mirrored surface with small ripples that seemed to whisper against the night.

Between them lay a folded magazine, open to a quote printed in neat, bold letters:

“I know April, May and June are a few unbearable months, and working out in a gym and sweating in such dirty hot, sticky, humid weather puts me off. The best way is to swim. I feel so fresh and rejuvenated after swimming, and I believe it’s one of the best modes to fitness during summers.” — Ashish Sharma

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “It’s funny, isn’t it? Even something as simple as swimming can sound like poetry when you’re desperate to cool down.”

Jack: (grumbles) “Poetry? It’s just practicality. When the world turns into an oven, you find water. Survival instinct. Nothing poetic about it.”

Host: A faint breeze stirred, carrying the scent of chlorine and grass. The water shimmered — not still, not wild — just breathing, as if it shared their fatigue.

Jeeny: “You always reduce everything to survival, Jack. Maybe that’s why you’re always tired. This isn’t just about cooling off. It’s about renewal. Rejuvenation. The way water can wash the noise out of your head.”

Jack: (snorts) “Water doesn’t wash the noise out. It just muffles it. Go deep enough, and you can’t hear anything — that’s not peace, that’s escape.”

Jeeny: “Maybe escape is exactly what peace feels like sometimes.”

Jack: (leans forward, elbows on knees) “You can’t live underwater forever. You always have to come up for air. That’s what people forget. They call it rejuvenation, but it’s temporary — a moment of quiet before the chaos returns.”

Host: The pool lights flickered, casting wavering patterns on their faces — ribbons of blue and white, moving like fragile thoughts. The insects kept their symphony alive, filling the air with that dense, humming energy only summer nights can hold.

Jeeny: “You know, there’s something honest about temporary peace. It doesn’t pretend to last forever. Maybe that’s why swimming feels sacred — because it reminds us that calm must be earned over and over again.”

Jack: “So you think Ashish Sharma’s right? That swimming’s some holy act of purification?”

Jeeny: (laughs softly) “Not holy. Just human. He’s talking about balance. The way heat drives us to seek coolness, exhaustion pushes us toward stillness. It’s a metaphor, Jack — the cycle of tension and release.”

Jack: “You’re turning a workout tip into philosophy.”

Jeeny: “And you’re turning life into a complaint.”

Host: Jack’s eyes flicked toward her, half amused, half wounded. He removed his shoes and dipped his feet into the pool. The water hissed softly as it met his overheated skin. He exhaled — a sound caught between relief and surrender.

The moon drifted out from behind a cloud, and the pool lit up like liquid glass.

Jack: (quietly) “You know… maybe you’re right. It does feel cleaner somehow. Like the world slows down when you touch it through water.”

Jeeny: “That’s what I’m saying. The body remembers — how to breathe, how to rest. Even when the mind forgets.”

Jack: (staring at his reflection) “But it’s strange. You get in to escape the heat, but the moment you step out — it’s waiting again. The stickiness, the discomfort. It never really leaves.”

Jeeny: “Neither does life. You don’t swim to end the heat, Jack. You swim to endure it.”

Jack: “So endurance is the point now?”

Jeeny: “Always has been. Survival, as you call it — but softened. Less about fighting, more about flowing.”

Host: The ripples deepened, spreading outward, each one reflecting fragments of moonlight and memory. Somewhere a door slammed, a motorbike roared and faded. The night felt infinite yet fragile, like the space between one heartbeat and the next.

Jack: “I guess I’ve always hated summer. It’s too loud, too heavy. Makes people restless.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Summer isn’t loud. You are. You never stop resisting the heat, the chaos, the stillness. That’s why it feels unbearable — not because it’s hot, but because you never surrender to it.”

Jack: (pauses, then chuckles) “So now I’m supposed to surrender to humidity?”

Jeeny: “Yes. To humidity, to imperfection, to the mess of being human. You can’t fight the weather — you can only move with it. That’s what Sharma meant — swimming isn’t an act of defiance. It’s acceptance.”

Jack: (murmurs) “Acceptance… I forgot what that feels like.”

Host: She turned toward him, the moonlight tracing her profile, her hair clinging to the side of her face in the humid air. She smiled — not pitying, but gentle.

She stood, kicked off her jeans, and dove into the water with a quiet splash. The sound broke the silence like a breath after drowning.

Jeeny: (from the water) “Come on, philosopher. Stop talking about life and feel it.”

Jack: (hesitates, then sighs) “I’m going to regret this.”

Host: He slipped in, the water embracing him with a shock of cool relief. The surface trembled, swallowed the noise, and everything went still except for their movements — slow, rhythmic, wordless.

For a few minutes, there was no cynic and no believer — just two bodies suspended between heat and silence.

Jeeny: (floating, eyes closed) “You feel that? It’s like the body starts breathing for itself. You don’t have to control anything.”

Jack: (his voice quieter now) “Yeah. It’s… lighter than I thought.”

Jeeny: “That’s the point. When you let go, the water holds you. Just like life, if you’d let it.”

Host: The moon climbed higher, the night softening. The sound of their breaths echoed against the water’s surface — steady, human, infinite.

When they finally climbed out, dripping and silent, the air didn’t feel as cruel. The humidity still wrapped around them, but it no longer suffocated. It felt… earned.

Jack: (quietly) “You were right. It’s not about escaping the heat. It’s about surviving it beautifully.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Exactly. Fitness isn’t just for the body. It’s for the soul — to remember movement when everything feels stuck.”

Jack: “So swimming’s not just exercise.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s forgiveness.”

Host: They sat again, feet in the water, the first light of dawn just touching the horizon. The sky was a faded watercolor of pink and blue. The pool shimmered like a mirror too honest for lies.

In that fragile quiet, they both felt it — the truth beneath Sharma’s words, simple yet profound:

That in the unbearable months, when the world feels too heavy, the answer isn’t to fight the heat —
but to find the water.

To move through it.
To be held by it.
To let it cleanse not only the body,
but the burden of being alive.