I'm not saying that there's anything better than mated bliss at

Host: The sunlight spilled across a tiny apartment, a quiet Sunday morning in late autumn. The air was warm, honeyed, carrying the smell of coffee and old books. A record player hummed softly in the corner — something slow, jazz-like, lonely but content. The window was open, and a soft breeze stirred the curtains, blurring the boundary between the outside world and this quiet room.

Jack sat at the table, barefoot, in a white shirt, reading the newspaper like a man performing an old ritual. Across from him, Jeeny curled on the sofa, legs tucked under her, hands wrapped around a mug. The light rested on her hair, turning it into liquid shadow.

A voice from the radio quoted Barbara Feldon: “I’m not saying that there’s anything better than mated bliss at its best, but I’m saying that living alone is as good in its own way. But we haven’t quite given ourselves permission to recognize that.”

The words hung in the air, and the silence that followed was the kind that asks for an answer.

Jeeny: “She’s right, you know. We talk about loneliness like it’s a disease. But maybe it’s a kind of freedom we’ve forgotten how to feel.”

Jack: “Freedom’s overrated. Nobody really chooses to be alone. We just learn to make peace with it.”

Host: He folded the paper, leaned back, his eyes tired but alive. There was a faint trace of sarcasm in his tone — the kind that covered something tender.

Jeeny: “That’s not true. There’s a difference between loneliness and solitude. Loneliness is an ache; solitude is a choice.”

Jack: “A choice made by people who can’t find anyone to love them.”

Jeeny: “Or by people who have loved — and learned that they don’t need to vanish inside it.”

Host: Her voice was soft, but her words cut through the room like a ray of clear light. Jack laughed, not mockingly, but with the kind of laughter that admits defeat without surrender.

Jack: “You sound like one of those wellness books — ‘find yourself, love yourself, be your own soulmate.’”

Jeeny: “Maybe those books are onto something. Maybe the tragedy isn’t being single — it’s thinking we’re incomplete until someone else fills the space.”

Host: A gust of wind moved through the window, lifting a few pages of the newspaper, spilling them across the floor. Jack watched, then sighed, picked one up, and smoothed it out.

Jack: “Humans are built for connection, Jeeny. We’re not meant to eat breakfast alone, or watch sunsets alone. Every poem ever written was about someone else.”

Jeeny: “That’s not true. Emily Dickinson wrote almost all her poems alone — and half of them about the beauty of being unseen.”

Jack: “And she died in isolation. A recluse.”

Jeeny: “She chose that, Jack. That’s the difference. She wasn’t waiting for someone to come home. She was already home.”

Host: Jack poured more coffee, the steam rising between them like a soft fog. His eyes wandered to the window, to the rooftops where pigeons stood, still against the light.

Jack: “You make solitude sound sacred.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe the holiest thing we can do is learn to be our own company.”

Jack: “Sounds lonely.”

Jeeny: “It’s only lonely if you still believe your worth depends on being seen.”

Host: The record crackled — a female voice began to sing, slow and melancholic, the kind of tune that remembers heartbreak but doesn’t regret it. The room was bathed in amber, the city noise below softened, distant, like another life entirely.

Jeeny: “We glorify romance so much that we forget — it’s not the only kind of love that exists. There’s the love of quiet mornings, of self-made meals, of knowing you can go anywhere, anytime, without asking.”

Jack: “Sounds selfish.”

Jeeny: “It’s not selfish to belong to yourself, Jack. It’s survival.”

Jack: “Survival isn’t living.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes it’s the first step toward it.”

Host: Jack rubbed his forehead, leaned forward, his fingers tracing the rim of his cup. His voice softened, lower, conflicted.

Jack: “You talk like you’ve figured it out. But tell me honestly — when you come home at night, when it’s quiet, when there’s no one there to ask how your day was — don’t you feel it? That small ache?”

Jeeny: “Of course I do. But that’s part of the beauty. It’s honest. It’s real. I’d rather feel that ache than lose myself trying to avoid it.”

Jack: “You think being with someone means losing yourself?”

Jeeny: “Not always. But too often. We shrink to fit into someone else’s story. We edit our laughter, our habits, our time. Love shouldn’t ask for that much.”

Jack: “But it does. It always does.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we’ve been writing the wrong kind of love.”

Host: The music shifted — a lighter, almost playful melody. Jeeny stood, walked to the window, and looked out at the street below. The trees were shedding, their leaves fluttering like letters never sent. Jack watched her in silence, his face unreadable.

Jeeny: “Do you know what’s strange? Society treats being alone like failure. We celebrate marriage, anniversaries, engagements — but when someone says, ‘I’m content on my own,’ people get uncomfortable. It’s like admitting a secret you’re not supposed to have.”

Jack: “Because people fear emptiness.”

Jeeny: “No. Because people fear themselves.”

Host: Jack rose, walked to her side. The light caught his face — a mix of weariness and recognition.

Jack: “You really believe living alone can be as good as love?”

Jeeny: “Not better. Just different. Like two paths that both lead home — one noisy, one quiet.”

Jack: “You think you could be happy that way forever?”

Jeeny: “Happiness isn’t permanent, Jack. Neither is love. But peace — that’s something solitude can teach you to keep.”

Host: A moment passed — long, full, and quiet. The city breathed beyond the window. Somewhere, a church bell rang, its echo lingering in the air.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe being alone isn’t about absence. Maybe it’s about presence — of yourself.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You finally said it.”

Jack: “But people still want to be seen.”

Jeeny: “Then look at yourself. Really look. That’s the permission Feldon talked about — to stand in your own light without apology.”

Host: The record ended. The needle lifted with a soft click. Jeeny smiled, turning toward Jack. There was no victory in her expression, only gentleness — the kind that comes from understanding.

Jack: “You think I could learn to live like that?”

Jeeny: “You already do. You just haven’t forgiven yourself for it yet.”

Host: He looked at her — and then laughed, quietly, the kind of laughter that belongs to a man who’s finally seen his own reflection.

Outside, the sky opened, and a stream of gold light filled the apartment. The curtains fluttered, the coffee steam rose, and for a moment, the world seemed perfectly balanced — two people, one together, one apart, both exactly where they needed to be.

And in that stillness, the truth of Feldon’s words lingered, like sunlight that refused to fade —

that solitude, too, is a kind of bliss.