I was friends with Susan Sontag the last four years of her life.

Host: The rain had been falling since dawn, a soft, relentless curtain over Paris, turning every street into a mirror of grey light and memory. The café on Rue de Vaugirard was nearly empty, except for the low hum of an old espresso machine and the faint music of Édith Piaf drifting from a radio. Through the fogged window, the Montparnasse Cemetery could be seen — its wet stones glistening like tears.

Jack sat by the window, his grey eyes fixed on the gravestones, a cigarette burning slowly between his fingers. Jeeny sat across from him, her hands wrapped around a cup of coffee, steam rising like a ghost between them. Neither spoke for a long while. The air was heavy, the kind of silence that hums with unspoken truths.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? To live with so much fire, so much love for life, and end in a quiet, rainy funeral. I read Marina Abramovic’s words about Susan Sontag today. She said it was all wrong — that Sontag loved life too much to leave it like that.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s just the illusion, Jeeny. Maybe everyone’s funeral looks wrong to someone who’s still alive.”

Host: Jack’s voice was low, edged with smoke and reason, but his fingers trembled slightly as he tapped the ash into a chipped glass. Jeeny’s eyes softened, catching the light from the window, which flickered as a bus passed by, splashing water onto the pavement.

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Some people carry too much life inside them. You can feel it — like a storm that never quiets. Sontag wrote about pain, about art, about mortality… She wrestled with it. She didn’t want to leave.”

Jack: “And yet she did. That’s the point. No matter how much you love life, it doesn’t love you back. It’s not personal — it just ends.”

Host: The words hit the air like cold rain against glass. Jeeny flinched slightly, but didn’t look away. The streetlight outside flickered — its light bouncing across the table, across their faces, as though echoing their pulse.

Jeeny: “But isn’t there something sacred about that? To love what doesn’t last — that’s the essence of being human. Susan Sontag lived as if every idea, every art piece, every touch mattered. That kind of love is immortal.”

Jack: “Immortal? Tell that to the rain, Jeeny. Tell it to the mud swallowing her grave. Love doesn’t stop decay. It’s poetic, sure — but it’s not truth.”

Host: Jack’s eyes narrowed, but his voice softened, a strange mix of anger and sorrow beneath the sarcasm. Jeeny leaned forward, her hair falling across her cheek, her voice trembling but steady.

Jeeny: “You think truth is just what remains after we die? Truth is what we create while we’re alive. When Sontag wrote about suffering, she turned it into beauty. When she fought cancer, she didn’t surrender to despair. That’s truth too — the defiance.”

Jack: “Defiance doesn’t change the outcome. It just makes the waiting prettier.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, a metallic drumming on the windowpane. Jack stared at the street, at the people running under their umbrellas, their faces blurred by the rain — a thousand stories passing, disappearing.

Jeeny reached out, her hand almost touching his, then pulled back.

Jeeny: “Do you really believe it’s all meaningless? That our love, our art, our memories — all of it just dissolves into the dirt?”

Jack: “I believe it dissolves, yes. But maybe that’s what makes it worth something. It’s not supposed to last. Even Sontag knew that. She said, ‘The only interesting answers are those that destroy the questions.’ Maybe she understood that life destroys its own questions — and that’s the only way to be free.”

Host: A long pause. The rain lightened, turning into a mist. Jeeny’s eyes glistened, reflecting the neon sign of the café — Le Rêve Perdu.

Jeeny: “Freedom without meaning is emptiness, Jack. You mistake truth for coldness. But truth can be warm too. It can be the way a person lives, how they love, how they leave traces behind. Marina was mourning that trace — that energy that made even death feel like a betrayal.”

Jack: “Death doesn’t betray anyone. It keeps its promise.”

Host: The silence that followed was dense. A waiter passed, wiping a table, his towel soaked. The clock on the wall ticked too loudly. Time was an indifferent beast, eating everything it saw.

Jeeny took a slow breath.

Jeeny: “You sound like Camus.”

Jack: “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. Even Camus wrote that we must imagine Sisyphus happy. Maybe Sontag was that — pushing the rock, knowing it would fall, but loving the push itself.”

Jack: “And that’s romantic nonsense. You can’t live off metaphors. You can’t feed on hope.”

Jeeny: “Then why are you still here, Jack? Sitting in a café across from a cemetery, talking about the dead? You say you don’t believe — but you can’t stop looking for something.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. He looked down, his hand tracing the edge of his cup, as if trying to find answers in the heat. His voice, when it came, was quieter — a crack in his armor.

Jack: “Maybe because I knew someone like her once. Someone who fought to stay alive. And when she died, it wasn’t the death that hurt — it was the silence that came after. The world just… went on. Like nothing changed.”

Jeeny: “But it did change. For you.”

Host: The rain eased into a drizzle. A thin beam of light broke through the clouds, catching the edge of Jack’s face. He didn’t answer. Jeeny watched him, her eyes deep and tender.

Jeeny: “That’s what Marina meant, Jack. That’s why she said it was all wrong. Because someone who lived so vividly deserved a world that noticed when she left.”

Jack: “The world doesn’t notice, Jeeny. It never has. People die in wars, in hospitals, in silence. Maybe the best we can do is remember them — briefly — before the next storm.”

Jeeny: “Then remembrance is the defiance. That’s what keeps us human.”

Host: The air between them shifted. The rain had stopped completely now. Outside, the clouds began to thin, letting a faint golden glow filter through.

Jack finally smiled — faintly, almost unwillingly.

Jack: “You really think memory redeems us?”

Jeeny: “No. But it connects us. It’s how love survives its own ending.”

Host: The café felt warmer suddenly, though the windows still wept with the last drops of rain. Jack leaned back, looking again toward the cemetery — now calm, its stones shining softly under the clearing sky.

Jack: “Maybe Sontag would’ve liked that. The idea that even in the wrong funeral, someone noticed the rain and thought, ‘She loved life so much.’ Maybe that’s enough.”

Jeeny: “It’s more than enough. It’s proof she still lives — in the space between grief and gratitude.”

Host: A car passed outside, splashing through a puddle that caught the light like a broken mirror. The reflection shimmered, trembled, then disappeared into the street’s curve.

Jack and Jeeny sat in silence, their cups empty, the air heavy with the scent of coffee and rain. The moment stretched — fragile, infinite.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack… maybe love isn’t meant to conquer death. Maybe it’s meant to accompany it — like rain on a funeral day. Wrong, but beautiful.”

Jack: “Yeah. Wrong, but beautiful.”

Host: The camera lingers on them — two silhouettes framed against the faint light of a clearing sky, the cemetery beyond blurred but peaceful. A soft breeze moves through the open door, carrying the scent of wet earth and roses from Montparnasse.

As the scene fades, the last words of Marina’s memory echo in the air — “God, she loved life so much.”

And for a brief, trembling moment, it feels like life itself pauses to listen.