I love the royal family. I even got up in the middle of the night

Host: The rain had just stopped, leaving the streets of London glistening beneath the pale amber glow of the lampposts. The city breathed softly, like an old lion resting after the storm. In a small café tucked behind Notting Hill, the windows fogged from the steam of freshly poured tea, two silhouettes sat facing each other.

Jack leaned back in his chair, grey eyes fixed on the TV behind the counter — a rerun of the royal wedding playing on mute. Jeeny’s fingers were curled around a chipped teacup, her gaze shimmering with faint nostalgia as the image of Kate Middleton’s smile flickered across the screen.

Host: The sound of rainwater dripping from the awning punctuated their silence — a rhythm between memory and argument waiting to unfold.

Jeeny: “You know,” she said softly, her voice carrying both warmth and conviction, “I still remember watching that wedding live. I even got up at three in the morning. There was something so… sacred about it. Like a nation remembering who it is.”

Jack: “Sacred?” He smirked, stirring his coffee. “You mean televised pageantry funded by taxpayers?”

Host: The steam from his cup rose between them like a quiet veil of tension.

Jeeny: “You sound like every cynic with a blog, Jack. You think everything’s a transaction. But that day, people were united — strangers cheering together in the cold. That’s not money; that’s meaning.”

Jack: “Meaning is a convenient mask, Jeeny. You call it tradition; I call it distraction. While people lined the streets to watch two privileged people marry, the government was cutting benefits for the poor. It’s easier to believe in fairy tales than to face the rot underneath.”

Host: A bus rumbled past, shaking the windowpane. Jeeny’s eyes flickered, reflecting both the passing light and the sting of his words.

Jeeny: “You think love and loyalty are fairy tales?”

Jack: “Not love. Loyalty maybe. Especially the kind that’s inherited like property.”

Host: The air thickened — not with anger, but with the weight of two worldviews colliding. The smell of roasted beans and wet wool filled the room.

Jeeny: “It’s not about inheritance. It’s about roots. People need something to belong to. The royal family — for better or worse — gives that to them. It’s part of our story.”

Jack: “A story written by privilege, edited by power, and sold with gold-plated smiles. Tell me, Jeeny — did the ‘nation’s story’ include the miners who lost their homes in the ’80s? Or the nurses working double shifts right now?”

Jeeny: “You always think everything’s about suffering. Can’t beauty exist without guilt attached to it?”

Jack: “Not when beauty blinds people to the truth. You watched a wedding; I saw a nation sedated.”

Host: Jeeny’s hands trembled slightly as she set her teacup down. A single drop of tea slid down the porcelain, like a small tear.

Jeeny: “My grandmother watched every Queen’s Christmas speech. Every single year. She said it reminded her that even through war and hardship, something remained steady. Are you going to tell me she was sedated too?”

Jack: “I’m saying she was comforted by an illusion. The monarchy is a mirage — a golden mirror that reflects what people wish Britain still was.”

Host: The clock ticked above them, steady and indifferent. Jeeny’s voice grew firmer, fueled by quiet emotion.

Jeeny: “An illusion can still hold truth, Jack. You think the crown is about politics. It’s not. It’s about continuity. Identity. It’s about the idea that even when everything changes — jobs, governments, values — there’s still something that ties us to who we were.”

Jack: “And that ‘something’ just happens to live in a palace?”

Jeeny: “It’s not the palace. It’s the symbol.”

Jack: “Symbols are dangerous. They make people obedient. They stop them from questioning.”

Jeeny: “Or they give them hope. When Diana died, millions wept — not because of royalty, but because she made that crown human. Don’t pretend that didn’t matter.”

Host: The rain began again — softly this time, like a memory repeating itself. Jack’s eyes softened as he looked at her.

Jack: “I’ll give you Diana. She was different. She used her platform to do real good. But that’s one person in a sea of ceremonial smiles.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s the point — that humanity can exist inside the ceremony. That compassion can wear a crown.”

Host: Her words lingered in the air like smoke curling from a candle’s dying wick. Jack leaned forward, elbows on the table, his expression dark but uncertain.

Jack: “You want to believe in a benevolent monarchy because it makes the chaos easier to bear. But tell me, Jeeny — what happens when those symbols crumble? When the illusion fades?”

Jeeny: “Then we find new symbols. That’s what humans do. But we don’t mock the old ones for holding us once.”

Host: The rainlight outside the window turned the street into liquid amber. A couple passed under an umbrella, laughing, their shadows merging like ghosts of another time.

Jeeny: “You know what I think, Jack? You’re afraid of faith.”

Jack: “Faith?” He chuckled bitterly. “In crowns and processions?”

Jeeny: “In belonging. In anything bigger than yourself.”

Host: The café had grown quieter now — only the faint music from the radio, the whisper of rain, and the slow breathing of two people at war with tenderness.

Jack: “Belonging has a price. When you belong to an idea, you stop questioning it. That’s how nations justify wars — and how people surrender their minds.”

Jeeny: “But without belonging, we lose ourselves completely. That’s what’s happening now — everyone detached, cynical, floating. Maybe that’s why people still cling to the royals. It’s not about obedience. It’s about remembering.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes glistened — not from tears, but from conviction burning like a small, resilient flame.

Jack: “So you watch the Queen’s speech, and it makes you feel whole again?”

Jeeny: “It makes me feel connected — to history, to my grandmother, to the sound of her clock ticking during the speech. It’s not about the Queen. It’s about the chain of voices that keep a people alive.”

Jack: “Chains can also bind.”

Jeeny: “Or anchor.”

Host: The pause that followed was long and gentle, like the moment after a storm when the sky still trembles but the sun is near. Jack looked down at his hands, the knuckles pale, the coffee long gone cold.

Jack: “You make it sound so noble. Maybe you’re right — maybe I’ve just seen too many hollow things dressed in glory.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you just forgot that not all glory is hollow.”

Host: The doorbell jingled as a new customer entered, bringing with him a gust of cold air and the scent of wet pavement. Jack’s eyes followed the man, then turned back to Jeeny — quieter now, almost reflective.

Jack: “You really believe it’s your duty — to watch, to care, to keep that connection alive?”

Jeeny: “I do. Not because it’s perfect. Because it’s part of who we are. You don’t throw away an old book just because its pages are yellowed.”

Jack: “But you stop pretending it’s scripture.”

Jeeny: “No. You read it differently. With gratitude.”

Host: The rain ceased. Outside, the pavement shone like glass. The flicker of the television caught Jack’s face, softening the hard angles of skepticism that usually guarded his eyes.

Jeeny smiled faintly, as if sensing the shift.

Jeeny: “Maybe the crown isn’t the story, Jack. Maybe the people are. But sometimes, we need a crown to remind us that the story still matters.”

Jack: “And maybe sometimes the story needs rewriting.”

Jeeny: “Then let’s keep writing it — together.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back now — the window, the street, the rain-slicked city beyond. Two figures, small but radiant beneath the dim light, their silhouettes framed by the glow of something fragile but enduring: belief.

The TV flickered again — the Queen’s voice, faint and distant, echoed through static.

“…a time for reflection… for unity… for hope.”

Host: Jack didn’t speak. He just nodded once — a quiet gesture, not of agreement, but of respect. The sound of the rain returned, gentle and rhythmic, as if the world itself was exhaling.

The screen dimmed to black.

And somewhere, in that small London café, between doubt and devotion, two hearts learned that faith — royal or not — is still a kind of belonging.