I'm a romantic, and we romantics are more sensitive to the way

Host:
The bar was quiet, the kind of place where the jukebox had stopped working years ago, but nobody ever fixed it. The air smelled faintly of smoke, whiskey, and rain, and the dim light spilling from the neon sign outside painted everything in tired red and blue — like memory breathing through glass.

Jack sat at the counter, his grey eyes low and shadowed, tracing circles on the rim of an empty glass. The night had that stillness that happens only after something breaks — a silence so complete it almost sounds like forgiveness.

Across from him, Jeeny sat in a booth, her brown eyes luminous beneath the soft hum of a hanging lamp. She was half-listening to the rain against the windows, half-watching him. When she finally spoke, her voice carried the quiet conviction of someone who had felt every word before she said it.

"I'm a romantic, and we romantics are more sensitive to the way people feel. We love more, and we hurt more. When we're hurt, we hurt for a long time." — Freddy Fender

Jeeny:
(softly)
You know, I think that might be the truest thing ever said about love.

Jack:
(chuckling without humor)
Yeah. Sounds like a curse disguised as a confession.

Jeeny:
(smiling gently)
It’s both. To love deeply is to wound deeply.

Jack:
Then why do people like us keep doing it?

Jeeny:
Because even pain feels alive. Because silence without love is worse.

Jack:
(looking up at her)
You think that’s what he meant — that romantics are addicted to aliveness?

Jeeny:
Yes. We’re drawn to the pulse — to feeling everything, even when it burns.

Jack:
You make it sound like being flayed by beauty.

Jeeny:
(smiling faintly)
That’s exactly what it is.

Host:
The bartender moved quietly, wiping down glasses, pretending not to listen. The rain outside grew heavier, the sound wrapping the world in a kind of aching rhythm. Somewhere down the street, a car door slammed, distant and final — a punctuation mark to some other story’s end.

Jack:
You ever notice how romantics never heal the same way other people do?

Jeeny:
(tilting her head)
How do you mean?

Jack:
We don’t move on — we just carry it better. We learn to hide the tenderness under calluses.

Jeeny:
(softly)
Yes. We don’t forget. We absorb.

Jack:
And every love, every heartbreak, becomes part of the way we see the world.

Jeeny:
Exactly. That’s what makes us so dangerous — we remember too beautifully.

Jack:
Dangerous, huh?

Jeeny:
Yes. Because we keep believing. Even after being hurt, we still believe in the next miracle.

Jack:
(smiling faintly)
Hope as self-inflicted wound.

Jeeny:
Hope as survival.

Host:
The neon sign flickered, bathing them briefly in red, then blue, then red again — like a slow heartbeat pulsing through the glass. The light caught on Jeeny’s hand as she reached for her drink, and for a moment, her fingers trembled slightly — a ghost of memory passing through muscle.

Jeeny:
You know what people never understand about romantics? We don’t love because it’s easy. We love because it’s necessary.

Jack:
And that’s why it hurts so damn much.

Jeeny:
Of course. We build temples out of temporary people.

Jack:
(smiling bitterly)
And worship them until they leave.

Jeeny:
Until they leave — and then we write psalms about the ruins.

Jack:
(sighing)
I’ve done that. Too many times.

Jeeny:
Me too.

Jack:
You ever wonder if it’s better to be less romantic?

Jeeny:
(quietly)
No. I’d rather hurt deeply than feel halfway.

Jack:
That’s masochistic.

Jeeny:
It’s human.

Host:
The rain eased, turning to mist that pressed softly against the windowpanes. The bar seemed to exhale, the air settling into a quiet intimacy. For a moment, it felt like time itself had paused — watching them, waiting.

Jack:
You think Fender meant that being sensitive is a gift or a punishment?

Jeeny:
Both. Sensitivity is how we find beauty in places others overlook. But it’s also how the world cuts us deeper.

Jack:
So we bleed where others bruise.

Jeeny:
Exactly. And we mistake the blood for meaning.

Jack:
(pauses, softly)
Maybe it is meaning.

Jeeny:
(whispering)
Maybe. Love’s never sterile — it’s supposed to leave a mark.

Jack:
And pain’s the proof that it was real.

Jeeny:
Yes. The ache after the song ends — that’s the echo of truth.

Host:
The bartender switched off the last of the overhead lights, leaving only the neon glow and the lantern’s faint shimmer from behind the counter. Shadows deepened. The rain started again, softer this time — like the world trying to apologize for its noise.

Jack:
You ever think maybe we hold on to pain because it keeps us connected?

Jeeny:
To the person? Or to the feeling?

Jack:
Both. To the memory of when we were fully alive.

Jeeny:
That’s the hardest part, isn’t it? Losing not just them, but who we were with them.

Jack:
Yeah. The version of yourself that loved without flinching.

Jeeny:
(sighing)
That version never truly dies. She just gets quieter.

Jack:
Until the next person wakes her up.

Jeeny:
(smiling faintly)
And she rises again — hopeful and unhealed.

Jack:
Like a fool.

Jeeny:
Like a believer.

Host:
A single thunder roll rumbled far away, dissolving into silence. The air inside the bar seemed charged, soft, electric — the way the air feels right before forgiveness, or confession.

Jack:
You know, I think Fender was describing the cost of seeing beauty in everything.

Jeeny:
Yes. The price of wonder is always pain.

Jack:
And still, we pay it.

Jeeny:
Because we can’t not. The heart doesn’t care about self-preservation.

Jack:
Maybe that’s its genius — and its downfall.

Jeeny:
(quietly)
Maybe that’s why artists exist — to translate heartbreak into something that doesn’t die.

Jack:
(smiling faintly)
So pain becomes art.

Jeeny:
And love becomes language.

Jack:
And we keep speaking it — even when no one listens.

Jeeny:
Because silence is lonelier than memory.

Host:
The neon light outside finally dimmed, leaving only the faint grey-blue of dawn beginning to break. The rain stopped completely. The world was still, waiting for its first breath of morning.

Host:
And in that quiet, Freddy Fender’s words lingered — gentle, raw, and true:

That to be romantic is to live with open nerves,
to walk the world without armor,
to mistake every flicker of light for promise
and still reach toward it.

That to love deeply is to hurt permanently,
because every great tenderness
etches itself into the skin of memory.

That sensitivity is both the gift and the wound —
the thing that makes us ache,
but also the thing that keeps us human.

And perhaps that is what the romantics understand best:
we are not meant to heal completely,
only to live beautifully with the cracks.

The first morning light crept through the window,
touching Jack’s face as he finally looked at Jeeny —
and for a moment,
the pain between them didn’t vanish,
but it glowed,
like something holy,
something earned,
something worth carrying.