I think handing out your heart all the time and giving it to

Host:
The evening had settled softly over the city, a slow rain falling like whispered confessions onto the cobblestone street outside. The café was almost empty now — its lights dim, its windows fogged, its warmth preserved only for the few souls who didn’t yet want to go home.

A single candle flickered on a corner table, its flame dancing lazily beside two half-finished cups of tea. Jeeny sat with her elbows resting on the table, her chin cradled in her hands, gazing out at the rain. The reflection of the city lights shimmered in her eyes — fragile, searching, alive.

Across from her, Jack leaned back in his chair, his coat unbuttoned, his grey eyes thoughtful beneath the soft haze of the candlelight. The faint sound of jazz hummed from a radio behind the counter — something slow, the kind of melody that lingered even after it ended.

Jeeny:
“Aimee Lou Wood once said, ‘I think handing out your heart all the time and giving it to people who don’t really love you because they don’t know you has been a learning curve. It’s about trusting and giving yourself over to the right people and retaining yourself from the wrong.’”

She turned toward him, her voice gentle, carrying both ache and reflection. “Don’t you think that’s one of life’s hardest lessons, Jack? To love without losing yourself?”

Jack:
He gave a quiet, humorless laugh. “Hardest? It’s damn near impossible. People talk about love like it’s a fair exchange — give, receive, repeat. But it’s not commerce. It’s chaos. You hand someone your heart and hope they don’t drop it. Most do.”

Host:
The rain intensified, tracing quicksilver veins down the glass. Jeeny’s eyes softened, but she didn’t flinch from his words. She had grown used to his cynicism — the way it hid bruises that hadn’t yet faded.

Jeeny:
“You sound like someone who’s stopped believing in people.”

Jack:
“I believe in people,” he said. “I just stopped believing they know what to do with something fragile.”

Host:
A small silence fell — the kind that carried more meaning than words ever could. The candle flame wavered, then steadied again, like breath after crying.

Jeeny:
“I think that’s what she meant,” she said softly. “It’s not about giving up on love — it’s about learning how to give it. We think handing our heart to everyone makes us generous, but sometimes it just makes us empty.”

Jack:
He looked at her, really looked, as though weighing the truth of what she said against his own experience. “So you’re saying love’s a matter of strategy now? Keep your heart locked until someone proves they can hold it?”

Jeeny:
She smiled faintly. “No. I’m saying love should be chosen, not scattered. You can’t pour yourself into everyone and expect to stay whole. There’s a difference between openness and surrender.”

Host:
The light in the café shifted as the rain outside began to slow. A few customers left quietly, their footsteps echoing through the narrow hall. Jack’s reflection shimmered in the window — two versions of him: the man of reason, and the one still haunted by his own tenderness.

Jack:
“When I was younger,” he said, “I thought love meant saying yes to everyone who needed it. Friends, lovers, strangers — didn’t matter. I mistook exhaustion for compassion.”

Jeeny:
Her eyes glistened. “And now?”

Jack:
He paused, his voice low. “Now I think love’s more about boundaries than bravery. Knowing who deserves your presence, not just your forgiveness.”

Jeeny:
“That’s wisdom, Jack,” she said softly. “And a little bit of heartbreak.”

Host:
The candle sputtered, its flame flickering as if agreeing. Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving the street slick and reflective — a mirror for the night’s quiet introspection.

Jeeny:
“I used to think withholding love made you cold,” she said. “But it’s not about withholding — it’s about protecting the parts of you that can’t regrow once broken.”

Jack:
He nodded slowly. “Maybe. But what if the right person never comes along because you’ve built too many walls trying to keep the wrong ones out?”

Jeeny:
Her smile was sad, tender. “Then at least you’ll still have yourself. Better lonely than hollow.”

Host:
The music behind them shifted to a slower tune, the piano notes falling like rain after the storm. Jack exhaled, rubbing his temples.

Jack:
“You always make it sound poetic,” he murmured. “But it’s hard, Jeeny. Trusting people again. Handing over something you already lost once.”

Jeeny:
“I know,” she said. “But maybe the point isn’t to trust perfectly. Maybe it’s just to trust again — even a little. That’s how the heart remembers it’s still alive.”

Host:
The waiter came to clear their table, moving quietly so as not to break the intimacy of the moment. Outside, a car passed through a puddle, sending ripples across the reflections of the café lights — as though the night itself were learning to move forward again.

Jack:
“Do you ever think love’s a mistake we keep repeating?”

Jeeny:
“Not a mistake,” she said. “A lesson. The one we never graduate from.”

Host:
He smiled at that — not cynically this time, but with something gentler, like gratitude disguised as fatigue. He reached for his coat.

Jack:
“You make it sound like pain is part of the syllabus.”

Jeeny:
“It is,” she said simply. “But so is joy. And forgiveness. And choosing again, when you thought you were done.”

Host:
They rose from their seats. The doorbell chimed softly as they stepped outside, the cold air wrapping around them like a new beginning. The street glistened under the lamplight, the puddles reflecting small constellations of gold.

They walked in silence for a while — the rhythm of their footsteps matching the slow heartbeat of the city.

Jack:
“You ever think love is less about finding someone who completes you,” he asked, “and more about finding someone who reminds you not to lose yourself?”

Jeeny:
She looked up at him, her eyes bright with both truth and tenderness. “That’s exactly it, Jack. The right love doesn’t consume you — it reflects you.”

Host:
They stopped at the corner, the traffic light blinking from red to green, casting alternating hues across their faces. The camera lingered on them — two figures caught between the past and what might still be possible.

And as the rain began again, gentle this time, Aimee Lou Wood’s words seemed to drift through the night air like a benediction:

That love, in all its beauty and failure,
is not the art of giving everything away,
but of learning — slowly, painfully, gracefully —
who is worthy of what you give.

That the heart, though fragile,
is not meant to be closed —
only carefully opened
to those who see you not as something to have,
but as something to honor.