I'm not bothered or sad about being on my own - after all, I've

Host:
The afternoon was quiet, painted in the faded gold of a London winter. A soft mist hung over the Thames, clinging to the bridges and streetlamps like a memory refusing to leave. Inside a small bookshop café, the air was warm, thick with the scent of paper, ink, and burnt coffee.

By the window, Jeeny sat, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea, her eyes tracing the flow of pedestrians below. Jack stood beside the shelf marked Philosophy, flipping through a worn copy of Simone de Beauvoir’s The Second Sex.

Outside, the rain was gentle, not quite falling, just resting in the air, as if even gravity had grown tired of pulling things down.

Jeeny:
Francesca Annis once said, “I’m not bothered or sad about being on my own—after all, I’ve never had a husband.”

Jack:
(closes the book, smirks slightly)
That’s not sadness. That’s liberation disguised as understatement.

Host:
He walked toward her, his boots leaving faint echoes on the wooden floor. His coat was open, his collar turned up against the cold, his eyes still sharp as a winter blade.

Jeeny:
Or maybe it’s something gentler than that. Maybe it’s peace. You know, the kind that comes from realizing you don’t have to be half of anything.

Jack:
Peace? No, Jeeny. That’s a defense mechanism. When people say they’re content being alone, it’s usually because they’ve learned how to make solitude sound noble.

Jeeny:
(smiling faintly)
Or maybe they’ve just learned that solitude is noble. There’s a difference between being alone and being lonely.

Jack:
(leans against the window frame)
People always say that, but it’s a thin distinction. Humans are wired for connection. We pretend independence is strength because we’re too proud to admit we crave company.

Jeeny:
(looks at him, steady and soft)
And yet, isn’t it stronger to stand without needing someone to hold you up?

Host:
The rain thickened, a slow rhythm against the glass, like a heartbeat that refused to fade. A child outside laughed, chasing pigeons through the mist, their wings flashing silver in the gray light.

Jack:
That sounds poetic, but humans aren’t built for perpetual solitude. Every philosopher who glorified it ended up writing about longing. Nietzsche, Thoreau, even Beauvoir—they all circled back to connection.

Jeeny:
But connection doesn’t have to mean possession. That’s what I hear in her words. Francesca Annis wasn’t mourning the absence of a husband; she was questioning why that absence should define her.

Jack:
(raising an eyebrow)
You think indifference is defiance?

Jeeny:
No. I think indifference is evolution.

Host:
Jack chuckled, a low, rough sound, the kind that held both amusement and sadness. He looked out at the street, at couples walking close, umbrellas touching like temporary bridges.

Jack:
You really believe that? That we can evolve past needing someone?

Jeeny:
Not past needing. Past depending. There’s a difference.

Jack:
(crosses arms, voice softens)
And what about love, then?

Jeeny:
Love isn’t dependence. It’s choice. You can’t choose freely if you don’t know how to stand alone.

Host:
A pause lingered—long enough for the rain to change tempo, for the tea to grow cold. Jack’s reflection blurred against the glass, merging with the city outside, as if he were part of it and apart from it all at once.

Jack:
You sound like solitude is a religion.

Jeeny:
Maybe it is. Maybe some people find their faith in themselves.

Jack:
Or maybe they find it because no one else stayed long enough to offer it.

Jeeny:
(hurt flickers in her eyes)
That’s cruel.

Jack:
It’s honest.

Host:
The tension between them tightened, invisible but tangible, like a string drawn too thin between two notes.

Jeeny:
(whispering)
No, Jack. It’s cynical. You mistake armor for truth.

Jack:
And you mistake idealism for courage.

Host:
A beat of silence. The rain outside turned into silver threads, weaving the air with sad light. Jeeny’s eyes shone—part anger, part something softer, like a memory she didn’t want to revisit.

Jeeny:
Do you know what’s really tragic? That we measure a person’s completeness by who they stand beside.

Jack:
That’s not tragedy, Jeeny. That’s just biology. We’re social animals.

Jeeny:
But we’re also souls. Don’t you see? She wasn’t saying she didn’t need love—she was saying she refused to let the lack of it make her feel broken.

Jack:
(sighs, looking down at the floor)
Maybe I envy that.

Jeeny:
(softly)
Maybe you should.

Host:
Her voice had changed—less defensive, more tender. Jack’s shoulders relaxed, his posture no longer that of a man arguing, but of one listening. The light outside had shifted, the gray turning amber, the fog beginning to lift.

Jack:
I guess I’ve always thought being alone meant failure. Like missing a train everyone else managed to catch.

Jeeny:
And I think being alone means you chose the right train, even if it’s going nowhere familiar.

Jack:
(half-smiles)
You make solitude sound romantic.

Jeeny:
It can be. If you stop treating it like punishment.

Host:
The café grew quieter, the last of the customers drifting out into the damp streets. Only the soft clatter of cups and the low hum of the radiator filled the space.

Jack:
So, Francesca’s not sad because she’s never had a husband.

Jeeny:
No. She’s free because she never believed she needed one.

Jack:
(thoughtfully)
That’s rare.

Jeeny:
So is courage that looks like calm.

Host:
The rain had stopped, leaving a faint shine on the pavement, like a freshly wiped mirror. Jack turned toward the window, his reflection clear now, beside Jeeny’s. Two faces, separate yet caught in the same pane of light.

Jack:
You think love and solitude can coexist?

Jeeny:
They have to. Otherwise love becomes need, and need becomes prison.

Jack:
(after a pause)
Maybe that’s what she meant all along. That being alone isn’t a wound—it’s a state of readiness.

Jeeny:
(smiles)
Yes. Not waiting for someone to complete you, but being whole enough to meet them as an equal.

Host:
The sun broke through the mist, spilling a soft glow over their table. The teacups caught the light, their porcelain edges turning almost translucent.

Jack:
(quietly)
Maybe we’re all just learning how to be whole, one quiet day at a time.

Jeeny:
And maybe that’s the most honest kind of love there is.

Host:
Outside, the city moved on—unhurried, unbothered, its heartbeat steady beneath the clouds. Inside, the silence between Jack and Jeeny felt less like distance, more like understanding.

They sat there—two souls, neither needing to be saved,
just sharing the stillness.

And as the light lingered on their faces,
it was clear: solitude was not an absence.
It was a presence—
and it was enough.