I've never been out with any of the cast of Coronation Street.

Host: The night air was cool and still, the kind that made the city lights shimmer like distant fires scattered across the skyline. A quiet rooftop bar overlooked the sleeping streets, the faint hum of traffic rising from below. Two glasses of wine sat untouched between Jack and Jeeny, their reflections bending in the liquid’s red glow.

Jack leaned back in his chair, his grey eyes scanning the skyline as if searching for something hidden in its glitter. Jeeny sat across from him, her hair catching the faint breeze, her expression thoughtful yet warm.

The mood was gentle — a rare pause in the motion of their lives.

Jeeny: “Richard Fleeshman once said, ‘I’ve never been out with any of the cast of Coronation Street. We’re all very close friends so it’s very much a professional attitude.’”

Host: The words floated into the night like a secret carried by the wind, light but weighted with meaning. Jack turned his head, a half-smile tugging at his mouth.

Jack: “So he draws a line. Smart man.”

Jeeny: “Or a lonely one.”

Host: A soft pause followed, filled with the faint sound of ice clinking in a nearby glass, a subtle reminder of the quiet distance between work and life, heart and duty.

Jack: “You think professionalism makes you lonely?”

Jeeny: “I think it can. Sometimes the walls we build to protect our careers end up keeping out everything else.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s the price of keeping things clean. You start mixing emotion with work, you get chaos. Ask anyone who’s fallen for a colleague — it’s a fire that always burns something.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But isn’t life about the fires too? The messy, uncontrollable ones that make you feel alive?”

Jack: “Alive doesn’t mean stable. You can’t build a future in smoke.”

Host: The city below seemed to pulse with muted energy, a thousand untold stories flickering behind windows like fireflies in glass cages.

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who’s been burned before.”

Jack: “Not burned. Just learned. Emotions are expensive, Jeeny. Especially in the wrong environment. Professionalism is the only currency that doesn’t fluctuate.”

Jeeny: “That sounds… cold.”

Jack: “It’s just clean.”

Host: Jeeny looked away, her gaze falling on the horizon where the faint glow of the moon kissed the tops of buildings. Her voice came softer, almost a whisper.

Jeeny: “But what if in keeping it clean, you wash away something worth holding onto?”

Jack: “You can’t lose what you never let in.”

Jeeny: “And you can’t feel what you never risk.”

Host: The conversation tightened, the air between them charged — not with anger, but with the weight of two truths colliding.

Jack: “You know what happens when you blur lines? You lose clarity. Teams fall apart, trust cracks, people start reading intentions where there aren’t any. I’ve seen it happen. In every workplace, every creative space — the moment feelings walk in, focus walks out.”

Jeeny: “But we’re not machines, Jack. We can’t live our lives in bullet points and contracts. There’s a reason actors fall for each other, artists connect — it’s proximity, yes, but it’s also shared vulnerability. You spend enough time pretending with someone, you end up sharing pieces of yourself you didn’t plan to.”

Host: A distant siren wailed — faint, lonely — before disappearing into the hum of the night. Jack rubbed his temple, thoughtful, not dismissive this time.

Jack: “So you’re saying Fleeshman’s wrong to keep it professional?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying he’s safe. But safe isn’t always the same as right. Sometimes professionalism is just fear wearing a suit.”

Jack: “Fear of what?”

Jeeny: “Of being seen. Of being human. Of letting the personal bleed into the professional and realizing how fragile we really are.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. He looked out at the skyline, the neon lights reflecting in his eyes like restless thoughts.

Jack: “But that fragility — it’s dangerous. The entertainment world, any world really — it feeds on that kind of exposure. Once people know what makes you feel, they know where to hit.”

Jeeny: “And yet, that same fragility is what makes art. It’s what connects us. If everyone stayed ‘professional,’ every story would sound the same — safe, predictable, lifeless.”

Host: The wind picked up, rustling the corner of the napkin beneath their glasses. The city below seemed to listen, like an audience suspended in breath.

Jack: “So what are you suggesting — that we abandon boundaries? That we turn every connection into an emotional gamble?”

Jeeny: “No. Just that maybe boundaries should protect us, not imprison us. There’s a difference between professionalism and fear of intimacy. Fleeshman’s quote — it sounds proud, but it also sounds like he’s defending himself from something he once wanted.”

Jack: “You think everyone who stays detached is secretly yearning for chaos?”

Jeeny: “Not chaos. Connection.”

Host: Her words cut gently, not to wound but to reveal. Jack looked at her for a long moment, his eyes softer now, though his voice stayed low, rough, restrained.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. But connection comes with cost. Look at every co-star romance in Hollywood — fame, fallout, gossip. The line between truth and performance disappears. People start questioning if what you feel is real or rehearsed.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s the price of authenticity. To risk misunderstanding in exchange for real emotion. To care anyway.”

Host: A single light flickered out above them, leaving their table in partial shadow. Jeeny leaned forward, her voice warm, steady.

Jeeny: “Don’t you ever get tired, Jack? Of being the rational one? Of living like your heart’s just a liability?”

Jack: “It’s not tiredness. It’s survival. Some of us aren’t built for reckless connections. Some of us need the structure — the rules — to keep the world from falling apart.”

Jeeny: “And some of us need to break the rules to remember we’re alive.”

Host: The silence that followed wasn’t awkward — it was full, thick, charged with unspoken things. The city’s hum filled the space between them, as if the world itself were holding its breath.

Jack finally picked up his glass, swirling the wine, watching the deep red whirl in circles — contained, beautiful, unspilled.

Jack: “Maybe there’s a balance. Maybe professionalism isn’t the opposite of humanity — maybe it’s the stage that holds it up. Without discipline, emotion’s chaos. Without emotion, discipline’s dead.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Maybe the key isn’t to build walls — it’s to build windows.”

Jack: “So you can see out without falling through.”

Jeeny: “And so others can see in.”

Host: The moonlight slid across the table, catching the edges of their glasses, turning the wine into liquid fire. Jack raised his, finally, and so did Jeeny.

Jack: “To balance, then.”

Jeeny: “To being both — professional and human.”

Host: They clinked their glasses — a soft, clean sound that broke the spell of silence. Below them, the city continued its endless hum — lives intersecting, stories colliding, rules breaking and being rebuilt.

Jeeny looked out at the lights, her eyes glimmering.

Jeeny: “You know, I think Fleeshman meant it — that professional distance. But maybe, somewhere deep down, he also knew it’s impossible to truly create something beautiful without a piece of your heart in it.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s why it works — because he keeps his heart hidden, but still lets it bleed through the cracks.”

Host: The camera would have lingered there — two silhouettes against a glittering city, both trying to hold onto what’s sacred without losing what’s real.

The wind shifted one last time, carrying away their words, leaving behind only the faint clinking of glasses and the unspoken truth between them:

That professionalism may protect the work, but only humanity gives it meaning.