Jax is incapable of only ever texting one girl at a time because

In the realm of fleeting love and restless hearts, the modern storyteller Scheana Shay once spoke with sharp humor and hidden sorrow: “Jax is incapable of only ever texting one girl at a time because even if he's dating one girl, there's still ‘Blonde N.Y.C.’ and ‘Redhead Chicago’ and ‘Girl From Miami Two Years Ago.’” At first, these words may sound like gossip born of glittering city nights and digital flirtation, but beneath them lies an eternal truth—one as old as desire itself. For Scheana, though speaking of the modern man with his glowing phone and restless thumb, is truly speaking of the ancient malady of faithlessness, the spirit that cannot rest in one place, nor love with one heart.

This quote, drawn from the world of entertainment and spectacle, reflects more than just the habits of one man—it is a mirror held up to the age we live in. It speaks of those who are incapable of devotion, who mistake attention for affection, and novelty for connection. “Blonde N.Y.C.,” “Redhead Chicago,” and “Girl From Miami Two Years Ago” are not just names; they are symbols of distraction, of how the heart that cannot be still drifts endlessly between faces and bodies, never finding peace. It is the curse of the one who chases many and holds none, who drinks from every cup yet dies of thirst.

The ancients warned of this. In the tale of Odysseus, the hero journeyed through lands of temptation—sirens who sang, goddesses who beckoned, comforts that whispered. Yet he tied himself to the mast of his ship, knowing that the one who listens to every song will never reach home. Such is the wisdom Scheana’s words conceal: that the man who cannot silence his craving for attention, who must always text, flirt, or seek validation, becomes like a wanderer lost at sea. His heart becomes scattered among cities and screens, and though surrounded by voices, he remains utterly alone.

It is easy in this age of endless connection to believe that more means better—that the abundance of choice is freedom. Yet true freedom lies not in endless pursuit, but in devotion. To give one’s full attention to another is a rare and noble act, as powerful as any vow. The one who cannot commit, who keeps many flames alight at once, is not free but enslaved—to boredom, to ego, to fear of stillness. He mistakes movement for progress and attention for intimacy, never realizing that both are illusions. The phone in his hand becomes his chain, the soft glow his master.

History, too, bears witness to this folly. The great King Henry VIII of England sought love in many places, marrying and discarding wives in pursuit of fulfillment. Yet with each conquest, his soul grew heavier, his legacy darker. His search for satisfaction through variety brought only turmoil and loss. Like Jax, he was “incapable of only ever texting one girl at a time,” though his messages were carried not by phone but by court and crown. His story, and Scheana’s quip alike, remind us that the restless heart destroys more than it delights.

There is something profoundly human in this weakness. The desire for attention, for affirmation, for proof that we are wanted, dwells in every heart. Yet wisdom teaches us that love cannot be multiplied without being diminished. The heart that tries to hold too many soon holds none at all. Loyalty—whether in friendship or romance—is not confinement; it is strength. To choose one person and stand by them through all things is not a limitation, but a declaration of mastery over one’s lower nature.

So, children of this fast and flashing world, learn from these words. Do not scatter your affections like seeds in the wind. Choose with care, and when you do, choose wholly. Let your words, your time, and your touch belong to one person at a time. The world offers endless faces, but love demands one heart. When you are tempted to be “Jax”—to text a thousand names, to keep the embers of old flirtations alive—remember that this is not love’s abundance, but its decay.

For in the end, Scheana Shay’s quote, though wrapped in humor, is a lament for the lost art of sincerity. The man who cannot give his full attention to one woman cannot give his full self to life. But the one who dares to love deeply, purely, and with focus—he becomes more than lover; he becomes whole. So let not your love be scattered among the cities; let it be rooted, steadfast, and alive. For there is no greater strength than constancy, and no greater peace than the heart that no longer needs to wander.