I think if we get freedom for women, then they are probably going

Host: The city lights blinked like restless eyes beyond the window. Rain slid down the glass in tired, uneven lines — each drop illuminated by the flicker of passing headlights. It was late. The kind of late that blurs into early. Inside the small apartment, the air carried the faint smell of coffee, paper, and a single cigarette burning slowly in an ashtray.

Jack sat near the window, his grey eyes fixed on the rain, a faint frown carving through his face. Jeeny was on the floor, surrounded by books, papers, and an open laptop. Her hair fell loosely across her shoulders, the glow from the screen reflecting in her eyes like a quiet flame.

On the table between them lay an old quote, printed and underlined — “I think if we get freedom for women, then they are probably going to do a lot of things that I wish they wouldn't do. But it seems to me that isn't our business to say what they should do with it. It is our business to see that they get it.” — Alice Paul.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How even someone who fought for freedom could still admit she wouldn’t like everything that freedom brings.”

Jack: (leaning back) “That’s because freedom’s messy, Jeeny. Everyone loves the idea until it stops fitting their taste.”

Host: The rain thickened, tapping harder against the glass, like the sound of applause from a distant crowd. Jeeny picked up one of the books, flipping through it absentmindedly.

Jeeny: “Messy, yes. But necessary. Alice Paul knew that. She didn’t say women should do what she approved of — just that they should have the right to choose, even to make mistakes.”

Jack: “You say that like it’s noble. I say it’s naïve. Give anyone complete freedom, and you’ll get chaos. You’ve seen it — people demanding the right to everything without understanding the weight of what they’re asking for.”

Jeeny: “That’s not chaos, Jack. That’s learning. Every revolution starts with mistakes. Women wearing pants used to be scandalous. Now no one blinks. You can’t evolve without offending the comfortable.”

Jack: “Sure. But at some point, offense becomes a hobby. Half the world’s screaming about oppression, the other half’s afraid to open their mouth. That’s not freedom — that’s noise.”

Host: The lamp between them flickered, its light catching the faint smoke curling from Jack’s cigarette. His voice carried a sharpness that wasn’t anger, but something closer to exhaustion.

Jeeny: “You think freedom should be tidy. It never is. The suffragists were called radicals. The civil rights marchers were called agitators. Freedom doesn’t arrive politely, Jack — it arrives shouting.”

Jack: “And sometimes it tramples reason on its way in. You fight so hard for liberation that you end up policing everyone else’s thoughts. That’s not liberty, that’s another kind of cage.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Then maybe we’re just learning how to use the key.”

Host: Silence. Outside, a sirene wailed and then disappeared into the distance. The city exhaled — neon lights, shadows, the smell of wet asphalt.

Jack: “You know, my mother used to say women didn’t need freedom; they needed security. She believed the world was too cruel, too sharp — that freedom would only cut us.”

Jeeny: “And did it?”

Jack: (pauses) “Maybe. Maybe it cut her in ways she couldn’t name.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes softened. She reached for her cup, her hands trembling slightly as she lifted it.

Jeeny: “Freedom always cuts. That’s what makes it real. You can’t protect someone and liberate them at the same time. Alice Paul understood that. You have to let people — women — stumble, fall, rise, repeat. Otherwise it’s not freedom; it’s permission.”

Jack: “You sound like one of those philosophers who loves ideals more than outcomes. What if the outcome is worse than the oppression?”

Jeeny: “Then we still had the right to try.”

Host: Her words hung in the room, soft but heavy. Jack turned toward her, studying her face like someone examining a wound — curious, careful, a little afraid.

Jack: “You ever think freedom’s overrated?”

Jeeny: “Every day. But I still choose it.”

Jack: “Even if it breaks things?”

Jeeny: “Especially then.”

Host: A faint smile touched her lips, though her eyes stayed serious. The rain slowed, softening to a whisper, the sound of it like breath against the windowpane.

Jack: “You know, when I worked overseas, I saw something different. In one of those small towns in Afghanistan, there was a woman — a teacher — who risked her life every morning just to open a school for girls. The Taliban had burned her classroom three times. Every time, she rebuilt it. She didn’t care about slogans or politics. She just wanted the choice to keep teaching.”

Jeeny: “That’s freedom, Jack. Not the speeches — the persistence.”

Jack: “Yeah. But I also saw her cry when her students were killed. You can tell me freedom’s worth dying for, but try explaining that to a mother who’s lost her child for a right she’ll never see realized.”

Jeeny: “That’s the cruel truth — freedom’s always bought with someone’s pain. But that’s not a reason to stop. That’s the reason to keep going.”

Host: The wind rattled the window, a low groan echoing through the room. The lamp flickered again, briefly plunging the space into shadow before steadying.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about that quote?” (She glanced down at the paper.) “Alice Paul didn’t want perfect women — she wanted free women. She didn’t care if they drank too much, or loved who they shouldn’t, or spoke too loud. She understood something most people still don’t: freedom isn’t about virtue; it’s about ownership. Ownership of your life, your mistakes, your voice.”

Jack: “And that’s what scares me. Because when people start owning themselves, they stop listening.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe that’s when they finally start.”

Host: Jack stubbed out his cigarette, the smoke curling upward like a faint ghost. He ran a hand through his hair, staring into the half-empty cup beside him.

Jack: “You really think we can handle it? True freedom?”

Jeeny: “No one handles freedom, Jack. They live it. Some days it’s graceful, some days it’s a mess. But it’s still better than obedience.”

Jack: “Obedience keeps order.”

Jeeny: “So does fear. Doesn’t mean it’s right.”

Host: Their voices had softened now — no longer colliding, but circling each other like two rivers merging. The rain had stopped entirely. A strange stillness filled the apartment, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator and the faint heartbeat of the city outside.

Jeeny: “You know, it’s funny — people like to quote Alice Paul when it’s convenient. But they forget she went to jail, starved herself, was force-fed — all for the right to be heard. And she never said women would be better people once they were free. She said they’d be human. That’s what this is about.”

Jack: (quietly) “Human. With all the mess that word carries.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The light from the lamp caught the faint tremor in his hands.

Jack: “You ever wonder what we’d do with that kind of freedom? If we really had it?”

Jeeny: “We’d misuse it. Abuse it. Love it. Lose it. But we’d still deserve it.”

Host: Her voice was calm, but her eyes shone with something fierce — a quiet defiance that made the room feel charged, alive. Jack stared at her for a long moment, then nodded slowly.

Jack: “Maybe the only thing scarier than losing control is realizing you never had it to begin with.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s where real freedom starts.”

Host: Outside, the first faint light of dawn crept between the buildings, painting the walls in soft shades of gray and blue. The rain had washed the streets clean, and the city — restless, bruised, but unbroken — began to breathe again.

Jeeny stood, gathering her papers, and looked at Jack.

Jeeny: “We don’t have to like what freedom becomes, Jack. We just have to make sure it exists.”

Jack: “And then what?”

Jeeny: “Then we trust it — even when it terrifies us.”

Host: The lamp flickered once more and went out. The room was filled now with the first light of morning. Outside, a single bird began to sing, its voice fragile but insistent — the sound of something small and unstoppable, reclaiming the sky.

And as they stood there — two silhouettes framed by the growing light — it seemed the world itself was whispering Alice Paul’s truth: that freedom, in all its imperfection, is not a gift of approval, but a promise of possibility — a flame meant to burn, not to please.