I'm romantic to the point of embarrassment.

Host:
The night was wrapped in a curtain of soft snowfall, the kind that muffled the city’s heartbeat and made every light seem holy. From a narrow window, the glow of an old bookstore café spilled into the street — a golden square cut into the cold.

Inside, the air was warm, heavy with the scent of coffee, paper, and faintly burnt cinnamon. The clock on the wall ticked softly, marking time that no one seemed in a hurry to keep.

At a corner table, surrounded by books stacked like small fortresses, Jack sat hunched over a notebook, his pen moving with stubborn precision. His coat was draped over the chair, his hair still damp from the snow.

Across from him sat Jeeny, her hands cupped around a steaming mug, watching him with that mixture of fondness and frustration that only comes from knowing someone too long.

Outside, the snow kept falling, blurring the world into a quiet, forgiving haze.

Jeeny:
“You know, Jesse L. Martin once said, ‘I’m romantic to the point of embarrassment.’”

Host:
Her voice carried warmth and tease — the sound of someone setting bait. Jack didn’t look up immediately. He simply smirked, still writing.

Jack:
“Embarrassment, huh? That sounds about right. Romance always seems to end with someone blushing or bleeding.”

Jeeny:
“You make it sound like a diagnosis.”

Jack:
“It is. Terminal, usually.”

Jeeny:
(laughing) “You’re impossible. I think being romantic is brave. To be willing to feel so much that you risk looking ridiculous — that’s not a sickness. That’s soul.”

Jack:
“Or self-humiliation with a soundtrack.”

Jeeny:
“Maybe. But I’d rather look foolish for feeling too much than clever for feeling nothing.”

Host:
Jack finally looked up, his grey eyes reflecting the faint shimmer of candlelight. The notebook lay open between them — the words on the page dark and hurried, like thoughts he was trying to outrun.

He leaned back, exhaling slowly, his voice low.

Jack:
“You ever notice how everyone calls themselves a romantic until they actually have to prove it? They love the idea of love — until it requires them to be raw.”

Jeeny:
“That’s why it’s rare. Real romance isn’t in gestures — it’s in the willingness to be foolish in public, vulnerable in private, and honest all the way through.”

Jack:
“Honesty ruins the fantasy.”

Jeeny:
“No. It redeems it. The fantasy without honesty is just performance. But when it’s true, even if it fails — it’s art.”

Host:
He gave a short, disbelieving laugh — not cruel, but weary. The kind that comes from a man who’s seen beauty burn out too many times.

Jack:
“Art, huh? So heartbreak’s a form of expression?”

Jeeny:
“Of course. Every broken heart is just a love story told in reverse.”

Host:
The snow outside pressed against the glass now, forming tiny white galaxies. The world beyond was disappearing, and for a moment, they were the only two people left inside the warm bubble of light.

Jack tapped the end of his pen against his notebook.

Jack:
“So you’re saying being romantic — to the point of embarrassment — is a good thing?”

Jeeny:
“It’s the best thing. It means you haven’t let the world numb you. It means you still believe that love — even ridiculous, messy, impossible love — is worth looking stupid for.”

Jack:
“And when it ends?”

Jeeny:
“Then you write it down. You pour it into songs, stories, and midnight confessions. You immortalize the foolishness so it means something.”

Host:
Her eyes shone, not with tears but with that unnameable mix of ache and hope. Jack stared at her — seeing not just her face, but everything she represented: belief against reason, tenderness against time.

Jack:
“I used to be that way, you know. I used to believe every late-night conversation, every glance meant something cosmic. I thought love was destiny — not design.”

Jeeny:
“And what changed?”

Jack:
“Reality. Love stopped feeling like music and started feeling like maintenance.”

Jeeny:
(smiling softly) “That’s because you stopped listening to the melody. You turned it into an equation.”

Jack:
“And you think that’s wrong?”

Jeeny:
“I think it’s safe. But romance doesn’t live in safety. It lives in the trembling before you say something you can’t take back.”

Host:
A long silence filled the café — the kind that made every ticking second audible.

Jack looked down, his fingers trembling slightly as he closed the notebook. The pen rolled away, slow, deliberate.

Jack:
“You make it sound easy — being vulnerable. But it isn’t. It’s exhausting to keep believing when everything falls apart anyway.”

Jeeny:
“Then don’t believe in permanence. Believe in presence.”

Jack:
“What’s the difference?”

Jeeny:
“Permanence wants forever. Presence just wants now. Presence doesn’t ask love to last; it just asks it to mean something while it’s here.”

Host:
He looked at her — really looked. The kind of look that lingers, that quietly admits defeat. His jaw softened, his shoulders dropped, and his eyes found hers with something almost tender.

Jack:
“So what you’re saying is… I should embarrass myself more often.”

Jeeny:
“Exactly. Embarrassment is proof you cared.”

Jack:
“And if I fall on my face?”

Jeeny:
“Then you’ll know you were human.”

Host:
The barista began stacking chairs in the background. The lights dimmed, leaving the two of them illuminated only by the small flame of the candle between them — trembling, alive, defiant.

Jeeny leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand.

Jeeny:
“You know, there’s something beautiful about people who can still blush. It means they haven’t built their walls too high yet.”

Jack:
“Blushing feels like exposure.”

Jeeny:
“It is exposure. But that’s what makes connection possible. You can’t fall in love without first being seen — and nothing reveals you faster than embarrassment.”

Jack:
“You make being foolish sound divine.”

Jeeny:
“Maybe it is. Maybe the divine isn’t in perfection — it’s in the stammer before the confession, the awkward silence before the first kiss, the vulnerability before the yes.”

Host:
Jack laughed quietly, shaking his head, but the sound carried warmth.

He reached across the table, gently touched her hand — tentative, almost apologetic.

Jack:
“You always find poetry in discomfort.”

Jeeny:
“Because that’s where truth hides.”

Host:
The snowlight shimmered across the window, framing their silhouettes in gold and ghost-white. Outside, a couple passed by — holding hands, laughing at nothing — and the reflection of their movement danced across Jack’s face.

Jack:
“Maybe Jesse Martin was right. Maybe romance is embarrassing. But maybe embarrassment’s the only proof it’s real.”

Jeeny:
“Now you’re catching on.”

Host:
He smiled, tired but genuine, and for the first time, his voice lost its armor.

Jack:
“You know, Jeeny, if I ever end up in love again, I hope it makes a fool out of me.”

Jeeny:
(smiling back) “Then maybe you’re already halfway there.”

Host:
The camera lingers on them — two souls surrounded by warmth and winter, laughter and silence, courage and fear.

The flame flickers, the last light in the room before the scene fades to black.

And as the screen darkens, a final line hangs in the air like a sigh, quiet but luminous:

Host (softly):
To be romantic to the point of embarrassment
isn’t to be naïve —
it’s to love without armor,
to risk beauty in a world that rewards indifference,
and to find, in that foolishness,
the most honest truth we ever tell.