I love my wife, she deserves anything and everything.

Host: The city night spread out like a velvet sea, streaked with neon light and the faint hum of traffic below. Through the window of a small apartment, the moonlight spilled across a cluttered table — a bottle of red wine, two half-filled glasses, and a single photograph lying face up.

Jack sat beside it, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his eyes weary but awake, staring at the picture as if trying to remember how to breathe. Jeeny entered quietly, her steps soft, her hands carrying two plates of food that were already cooling.

Outside, the city pulsed — indifferent, alive, endless. Inside, the air held a stillness too heavy to name.

Jeeny: “You’ve been staring at that photo for half an hour. You’ll burn a hole through it if you keep at it.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what it deserves — to be burned into my eyes. So I don’t forget again.”

Jeeny: “Forget what?”

Jack: “Her. The way she looked at me. The way I didn’t look back.”

Host: The lamplight shimmered against the glass, the faintest reflection of two faces suspended between memory and confession.

Jeeny set the plates down, her voice a careful whisper.

Jeeny: “You said you loved her.”

Jack: “I did. I do. Aaron Spelling once said, ‘I love my wife, she deserves anything and everything.’ I used to think that was just a line — the kind of thing a man says when he’s lucky enough to feel noble. But now I think he was right. She did deserve everything. I just… didn’t know how to give it.”

Jeeny: “You can’t give someone everything, Jack. Love isn’t a gift you wrap once and hand over. It’s what you build every day.”

Jack: “Then I stopped building. Maybe I thought the house could stand on its own.”

Jeeny: “And it never can.”

Host: A train groaned somewhere far off, its sound blending with the sirens and the soft rumble of distant thunder. The air thickened with memory — not of what was said, but what was left unsaid.

Jack poured another glass, his hands trembling slightly.

Jack: “You ever think love turns into something else? Like… a habit? A duty?”

Jeeny: “No. Habit is what’s left when love forgets its soul.”

Jack: “Then maybe I forgot mine.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe you were afraid to keep it. People think love is about possession, about having someone. But it’s not. It’s about presence — about showing up even when it’s hard.”

Jack: “She used to say the same thing. When I’d come home late from work, she’d be sitting on the couch, waiting. She never yelled. Just asked, ‘Were you here, Jack? Or were you just… around?’”

Jeeny: “And what did you say?”

Jack: “Nothing. Because she was right.”

Host: The silence between them deepened, stretching like a bridge over a river of things too painful to touch. The rain began, first a whisper, then a soft percussion on the window glass.

Jeeny looked at him — his jaw tight, his eyes lost in the past — and spoke with a gentleness that carried more truth than comfort.

Jeeny: “You say she deserved anything and everything. But love isn’t about deserving. It’s about doing — even when you’re tired, even when the other person doesn’t see it. Love is the work that keeps the soul breathing.”

Jack: “You talk about it like it’s a sacred craft.”

Jeeny: “It is. You can’t just say ‘I love you’ — you have to live it. Every gesture, every choice, even every failure. That’s what keeps it real.”

Jack: “Then why do so many people lose it? Why do they let it fade?”

Jeeny: “Because they forget that love isn’t a feeling — it’s a practice. Feelings change. Work doesn’t.”

Host: The rain drummed harder, a rhythmic pulse against the windowpane. In its music, there was something almost merciful, as if the sky were weeping for them both.

Jack leaned back, sighing, his voice lower now.

Jack: “You think she’d still forgive me if I told her all this? If I told her I finally get it?”

Jeeny: “Forgiveness isn’t about understanding, Jack. It’s about truth. People forgive when they feel seen, not when they hear apologies.”

Jack: “Then maybe I never really saw her.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you still can. Love doesn’t end where mistakes begin. It just waits — for the heart to wake up.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled slightly. She stared into her glass, where the wine caught the light like blood and flame.

Jack: “You talk like you’ve loved and lost too.”

Jeeny: “I have. We all have. Love leaves scars — but scars are what prove it was real. The people who deserve everything are the ones who love you even when you’re broken.”

Jack: “And if they’re gone?”

Jeeny: “Then you carry them. You honor them by being what you should have been. You love someone else with the lesson they left you.”

Host: A flash of lightning cut across the sky, followed by a deep, rolling thunder. For a moment, everything in the room — the photograph, the wine, the faces — seemed suspended between light and shadow.

Jack reached for the photo, his fingers brushing the edge.

Jack: “She used to call me her ‘storm.’ Said I was loud, unpredictable, but that I made her feel alive. I laughed at her back then. I thought she was being dramatic.”

Jeeny: “She probably was. That’s what love does — it makes drama out of the ordinary.”

Jack: “And now I’d give anything to hear it again. Even her nagging, her anger. Anything.”

Jeeny: “That’s how you know it was real. When you start to miss the parts that used to bother you.”

Jack: “So what do I do now?”

Jeeny: “You do what love always asks of us. You begin again. You learn, you forgive, you give without keeping score. That’s what ‘anything and everything’ really means. Not the gifts, not the grandeur — but the grit. The staying.”

Host: The rain slowed, leaving a faint haze over the city lights. The clock on the wall ticked, steady, unbothered by the ache of human hearts.

Jack: “You think I still deserve that kind of love?”

Jeeny: “We all do. But you have to become the kind of person who can give it.”

Jack: “And that’s the hard part.”

Jeeny: “The only part that matters.”

Host: Jack finally smiled, faint and tired, but real. He lifted his glass, the red liquid catching the last of the light.

Jack: “To her. To the woman who deserved everything — and to the fool who’s still trying to learn what that means.”

Jeeny lifted hers, too, their glasses meeting with a soft chime that echoed like forgiveness.

Jeeny: “And to the love that teaches us, even after it’s gone.”

Host: Outside, the rain stopped completely. The city glistened like a mirror, and in that reflection, the light seemed to linger — as if the universe itself had paused to listen.

The photograph lay between them, its edges catching the moonlight, no longer just a memory, but a promise — quiet, imperfect, eternal.