I'm a scientist at heart, so I know how important the truth is.

Host: The evening was wet, the kind of rain that didn’t fall but hovered — a mist that blurred the streetlights into halos and softened the edges of the city. The bar was nearly empty, save for the low hum of a refrigerator and a single TV murmuring the news.
Jack and Jeeny sat in a corner booth, the table cluttered with half-empty glasses, a notebook, and a crumpled napkin on which someone had written a quote:

“I’m a scientist at heart, so I know how important the truth is. However inconvenient, however unattractive, however embarrassing, however shocking, the truth is the truth, and wanting it not to be true doesn’t change things.” — Ricky Gervais.

Jack read it twice, frowning, his finger tracing the words as if testing their weight.

Jack: “You know what’s funny about truth, Jeeny? Everybody says they want it — until it actually shows up.”

Jeeny: “That’s because truth doesn’t knock. It breaks the door.”

Host: Her voice was soft, but it carried a sharp edge, like a blade wrapped in silk. She stirred her tea, watching the tiny spirals of steam rise and disappear. The bar light above them flickered, painting their faces in flashes of amber and shadow.

Jack: “Gervais says the truth doesn’t change, no matter how inconvenient it is. I used to believe that. But lately, I think truth’s like light — it bends depending on where you’re standing.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. The light bends, but the truth doesn’t. The problem isn’t the truth — it’s our angle. We see what comforts us, not what’s there.”

Jack: “So what, you think the truth’s objective? That it’s sitting somewhere, waiting for us to uncover it, like a fossil?”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s more like gravity — invisible, but constant. You can ignore it, deny it, even curse it. But it still pulls.”

Host: Jack laughed, short and dry, his eyes tired but alive with defiance.

Jack: “You sound like a preacher. Truth as salvation.”

Jeeny: “No. Truth as liberation. They’re not the same.”

Host: The bartender turned down the TV, leaving only the sound of rain and the occasional clink of glass. The world outside seemed to vanish, leaving only that small island of light, that booth, those two voices.

Jack: “You know what the real problem is? People think the truth is noble. But most of the time, it’s ugly. It ruins marriages, it ends friendships, it kills illusions that were keeping people sane. So tell me, Jeeny — is it still noble if it destroys the person who finds it?”

Jeeny: “It’s not supposed to be noble, Jack. It’s supposed to be real. You don’t chase truth because it’s kind. You chase it because it’s all that’s left when the lies stop working.”

Host: The rain picked up, pattering harder against the window. Jack stared out at it — his reflection blurring in the glass, a ghost overlaying the city.

Jack: “You ever told a truth that ruined something?”

Jeeny: “Yes.”

Jack: “And did you regret it?”

Jeeny: “Every day.”

Host: The silence that followed was heavy, not with guilt, but with the kind of mutual recognition that only comes when both people have seen the same kind of damage.

Jack: “Then why defend it?”

Jeeny: “Because regret isn’t the same as wrong. Sometimes you destroy something false to make room for something true — even if it hurts.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his fingers tapping the table. The rhythm was slow, methodical — like a man measuring his own pulse.

Jack: “So what happens when the truth isn’t liberating at all? What if it just… ruins you?”

Jeeny: “Then you learn to live among the ruins. That’s what being human is. Accepting that the truth doesn’t always heal — it just reveals.”

Host: Her eyes glimmered in the dim light, and for a moment, Jack looked at her not as an opponent, but as someone who had seen the same battlefield.

Jack: “You really think truth is worth that kind of pain?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because illusion is a quieter kind of death. At least truth kills you honestly.”

Host: A thunderclap rolled across the city, distant but commanding. The light from the window flashed, illuminating the room for a heartbeat — Jeeny’s calm, Jack’s unrest, and between them, that stubborn, invisible thing called conviction.

Jack: “You know, I once told my brother the truth about our father. About what he did. It broke him. We haven’t spoken in years. Sometimes I wonder if I should’ve just kept quiet.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you should’ve. But that doesn’t make the truth less true. It just means we’re not always strong enough for it. The truth doesn’t wait for us to be ready, Jack. It just arrives.”

Host: His fingers tightened around the glass, his knuckles white. He took a long breath, exhaled slowly, and let his eyes fall to the quote again.

Jack: “However inconvenient, however shocking… Yeah, that sounds about right.”

Jeeny: “That’s what being a scientist of the soul means. You don’t flinch from what’s real, even when it burns.”

Jack: “And if truth’s the fire, what are we supposed to be? The match, or the hand that gets burned?”

Jeeny: “Both. Always both.”

Host: The rain had slowed to a whisper now. The air smelled faintly of ozone and wet stone. Jack sighed, the fight in his voice replaced with something quieter — an almost reluctant acceptance.

Jack: “You know, maybe Gervais was right. We spend too much time arguing with what is, trying to wish it into something prettier. But the world doesn’t care about our wishes.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The world doesn’t bend for comfort — it bends for gravity. The truth isn’t there to please us, Jack. It’s there to wake us.”

Host: A faint smile touched her lips — not warm, but true. The kind of smile that comes from someone who’s made peace with discomfort.

Jack lifted his glass in a half-hearted toast.

Jack: “To waking up, then. Even if it hurts.”

Jeeny: “Especially if it hurts.”

Host: They clinked their glasses softly. The sound was small — fragile, human, final. Outside, the rain began again, falling harder now, as if the world itself had decided to wash away all pretense, leaving only what was real.

And for a long, long while, neither of them spoke — because sometimes, even between two seekers of truth, silence says the most honest thing there is.