I'm a big old romantic.

Host:
The night unfurled across the city like a velvet curtain, soft and dark and full of secrets. Rain fell slow, not as storm but as memory, tracing silver threads along the windowpanes of an old apartment overlooking the river.

Inside, the room glowed with the golden hush of a single lamp, its light spilling over a half-empty bottle of wine, two glasses, and the faint smoke of a forgotten candle.

Jack sat by the window, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his sleeves rolled, a man equal parts defeat and reflection. Across from him, Jeeny sat cross-legged on the couch, wearing one of his sweaters, her hair messy, her eyes tired but alive — the kind of alive that comes only from feeling too much.

The rain tapped against the glass like a heartbeat too stubborn to stop.

Jeeny:
“You know, you never admit it out loud, but you are.”

Jack:
(looking up) “What?”

Jeeny:
“A big old romantic.”

Jack:
(half-smiling) “Colin Farrell said that once, didn’t he? ‘I’m a big old romantic.’ Maybe it sounds charming coming from him. But coming from me? It sounds like a flaw.”

Jeeny:
“Why?”

Jack:
“Because romance is just self-deception wrapped in candlelight. You want to believe in it because the alternative is unbearable — that life’s just noise, and love’s just a chemical trick.”

Jeeny:
(smiling faintly) “And yet here you are — drinking wine, staring out at the rain like the ghost of a poet.”

Host:
Her tone was teasing, but her eyes softened with understanding. The lamp flickered, its light catching the faint steam of their breath.

Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his voice low and rough as gravel.

Jack:
“Maybe I just like the illusion. Romance makes the world tolerable. It’s the story we tell ourselves so we don’t go mad from meaninglessness.”

Jeeny:
“That’s the cynic talking. The wounded one. But the real you — the one who writes love letters you never send, who keeps the ticket stub from our first movie — he’s the romantic.”

Jack:
“Those are artifacts, not proof.”

Jeeny:
“They’re proof of belief. You keep the things you can’t explain.”

Host:
A soft silence settled, full of everything they didn’t want to name. Outside, the river shimmered, catching bits of city light like broken glass.

Jeeny watched him quietly — the way his hands trembled slightly, the way his eyes drifted to the rain instead of her.

Jeeny:
“Do you know why people fear being romantic?”

Jack:
“Because it always ends in disappointment.”

Jeeny:
“No. Because it makes you visible. Being romantic means saying, ‘I believe in something fragile.’ It’s the purest kind of bravery — the kind that doesn’t hide behind irony.”

Jack:
“Or stupidity. Depending on how it ends.”

Jeeny:
(smiling sadly) “Not everything brave ends well, Jack. But it’s still brave.”

Host:
The rain intensified, a thousand soft drums on the glass. The sound filled the room, as if nature itself wanted to take part in the conversation — half applause, half elegy.

Jack turned from the window, his eyes tired but his voice honest now, stripped of sarcasm.

Jack:
“You want the truth? I used to believe in the kind of love that could save people. That could rewrite everything — the pain, the past, the whole damn world. I wanted to be one of those fools who’d die for it.”

Jeeny:
(quietly) “You still do. You just pretend you don’t.”

Host:
The lamp’s flame wavered, like a heartbeat faltering under confession.

Jack exhaled, a slow, deliberate motion — a man releasing years of denial.

Jack:
“You make me sound sentimental.”

Jeeny:
“You are. You hide it under cynicism because you think it makes you safer. But it just makes you lonelier.”

Jack:
“And what about you? You talk like love is divine, but you wear armor too. You never fall, Jeeny. You glide.”

Jeeny:
(softly) “Maybe that’s because I’ve seen how falling destroys people. I used to love recklessly. I used to think love would save me. But it doesn’t. It just makes you see yourself clearer — and that’s the hardest thing of all.”

Jack:
“So we’re both romantics pretending not to be.”

Jeeny:
“Exactly. The world’s full of them. All these people pretending to be ironic so no one sees how much they still hope.”

Host:
The room dimmed further, shadows merging, time blurring. The rain slowed to a whisper, and the river’s reflection trembled under a passing gust.

Jack stood, walked toward the window, and pressed his hand against the cold glass. The city lights rippled across his face, softening his edges.

Jack:
“You know what the real tragedy of being a romantic is? You keep believing even after you shouldn’t. You keep writing stories for people who stop reading.”

Jeeny:
“Then maybe the tragedy isn’t believing — it’s believing alone.”

Host:
The words landed like quiet thunder. For a moment, neither spoke. Then Jeeny rose, walked to him, and stood beside him at the window.

Jeeny:
“You think romance is an illusion. I think it’s rebellion. To stay tender in a world that keeps trying to harden you — that’s the most radical thing there is.”

Jack:
“And what happens when tenderness breaks you?”

Jeeny:
“Then you start again. Because that’s what romantics do. They rebuild even when there’s nothing left but ashes.”

Host:
The clock ticked, steady and patient. The rain had stopped now, leaving the city soaked, glowing beneath the pale halo of streetlights.

Jack turned to face her, really looking this time. Her eyes were dark, bright, unwavering.

Jack:
“You make it sound noble.”

Jeeny:
“It is noble. It’s the only kind of madness worth keeping.”

Jack:
(smiling faintly) “So we’re both mad.”

Jeeny:
“Beautifully so.”

Host:
He reached for the bottle of wine, poured the last of it into their glasses, and raised his in a quiet toast.

Jack:
“To fools and romantics.”

Jeeny:
“To fools because they’re romantics.”

They clinked glasses — the sound delicate, crystalline, almost like laughter.

Host:
They drank. The lamp flickered one last time, then faded out, leaving only the soft, liquid light of the river through the window.

In that silence, the air carried a rare kind of peace — the kind that follows truth when it’s finally spoken.

Host (softly):
Outside, the city exhaled, and the river flowed, steady and endless.

And inside the small apartment, two tired souls — a cynic who believed too much, and a dreamer who feared she still did — stood together in the dark, caught between doubt and tenderness.

Because sometimes, admitting you’re a big old romantic isn’t a confession —
it’s a surrender.

A surrender to the only madness that still feels like hope.