Just because you are blind and unable to see my beauty doesn't

Host: The night stretched across the city like a velvet curtain, thick and heavy with silence. A faint hum of traffic pulsed in the distance — the kind of sound that reminded you life never really stops, it just waits in quieter tones.

Inside a small art gallery, the lights glowed warm and low. The walls were lined with paintings — bursts of color, form, and emotion — though the room itself was nearly empty. The air smelled faintly of oil paint and dust, a mixture of creation and decay.

Jeeny stood in front of one painting, her hands folded gently in front of her. The canvas was a swirl of crimson and gold, wild and defiant, like something that refused to be explained. Jack stood a few feet away, his arms crossed, his eyes cold, analytical.

Jeeny: “Margaret Cho said, ‘Just because you are blind and unable to see my beauty doesn’t mean it does not exist.’ I think about that sometimes — how often people confuse what they can’t understand with something that isn’t there.”

Jack: “Or maybe sometimes what we can’t see really isn’t there. You ever think of that? Maybe we romanticize invisibility to make ourselves feel better.”

Host: His tone was sharp, the way it always was when he felt his logic was about to be challenged. The gallery’s light flickered slightly, casting a moving shadow across the floor between them — like the hesitation between belief and doubt.

Jeeny turned toward him, her eyes steady, her voice calm but edged with fire.

Jeeny: “You think beauty depends on being seen?”

Jack: “Of course it does. What good is it if no one can perceive it? A painting in a dark room might as well not exist. It’s just color trapped in silence.”

Jeeny: “But it does exist, Jack. Even in the dark, it’s still there — waiting to be discovered, not created. That’s what Cho meant. Truth doesn’t disappear just because eyes refuse to look.”

Jack: “Truth may exist, but meaning doesn’t. Meaning needs witnesses. It needs an audience. Without someone to see it, it’s just... potential.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s your problem. You think validation equals existence. You think the world only matters if someone’s watching.”

Host: The silence deepened, heavy as the air before a storm. Jack’s jaw clenched, and he took a slow breath through his nose, as if trying to contain something breaking inside him. The clock on the wall ticked, its rhythm echoing their rising tension.

Jack: “No, I just live in the real world, Jeeny. Out there, no one gets credit for invisible beauty. People judge by what they can see — by results, appearances, numbers. You can have all the depth you want, but if no one sees it, it doesn’t change a thing.”

Jeeny: “Then why do people still pray? Why do they still love those who are gone? Why does a poet still write when no one reads? Some things don’t need an audience. They just need to be.”

Jack: “That’s idealism. A luxury for dreamers. The rest of us have to deal with how the world actually works.”

Jeeny: “You mean how you wish it would work. Predictable. Quantifiable. Safe. But real life — real beauty — doesn’t exist inside equations, Jack. It breathes in the places that can’t be measured.”

Host: The rain began outside — soft at first, then harder, a steady drumming on the windows. The sound filled the gallery, a kind of accidental music that gave their silence shape. Jeeny walked closer to one of the paintings, the one no one ever seemed to notice — a small, dark canvas tucked near the corner.

Jeeny: “Look at this one. People walk right past it. They don’t see the shapes, the texture. But when you look close, there’s something... alive in it. It’s not trying to be pretty. It’s just true.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s just bad art.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Or maybe you’re the one who’s blind.”

Host: The words hung there, soft but cutting — like silk with a hidden blade. Jack’s eyes narrowed, but there was no anger this time, only defensiveness wrapped in fear.

Jack: “You talk like I choose not to see things. But maybe I just don’t see what you see. Isn’t that allowed?”

Jeeny: “Of course it is. But that doesn’t mean what you can’t see stops being real. Beauty isn’t a democracy, Jack. It doesn’t need your vote to exist.”

Jack: “Then what’s the point of beauty that no one can touch, or feel, or understand? What’s it for?”

Jeeny: “It’s for the soul, Jack. It’s what keeps us from turning into machines. It’s the one thing that asks nothing — no approval, no performance. It just is.”

Jack: “You sound like my art teacher. She used to say beauty was a form of resistance — that creating something pointless was the most human act of all.”

Jeeny: “Maybe she was right.”

Host: Jack’s eyes drifted back to the painting, its dark colors almost indistinguishable in the dim light. For the first time, he looked — really looked. His shoulders lowered, his face softened, as if something had quietly shifted.

Jack: “It’s strange. The more I look at it, the more it starts to make sense. Like it’s been waiting for me to stop trying to define it.”

Jeeny: “That’s what happens when you finally let go of the need to understand everything. You start to see.”

Jack: “Maybe the blindness Cho talked about isn’t in the eyes, but in the way we look — expecting beauty to explain itself.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We blind ourselves with expectation. Beauty doesn’t owe us clarity. It only asks that we be present.”

Host: The rain slowed to a drizzle. The clock on the wall ticked softer, almost respectfully. The gallery seemed smaller now — intimate, alive, like it was listening.

Jack turned to Jeeny, his voice quieter than before, tinged with something almost fragile.

Jack: “Do you ever wonder if that’s why people fail to love each other properly? Because they want beauty to be obvious — easy to see.”

Jeeny: “All the time. People don’t fall in love with beauty; they fall in love with reflection. What they recognize in themselves. But real beauty — the kind Margaret Cho was talking about — exists even when no one mirrors it back. That’s what makes it real.”

Jack: “So what happens if no one ever sees it?”

Jeeny: “Then it becomes sacred.”

Host: The words landed between them like a whispered truth, delicate yet unbreakable. The lamps buzzed softly overhead. A few raindrops slipped down the window, tracing the light in slow, trembling lines.

Jack walked toward the painting, the one no one looked at. He stood there for a long moment, then reached out — not to touch, but to acknowledge.

Jack: “You know... I used to think love was about being understood. But maybe it’s just about being seen, even when the world’s blind to it.”

Jeeny: “Or about believing in your own light, even when no one else can see it shining.”

Jack: “That’s harder than it sounds.”

Jeeny: “The hardest things are always the ones that matter.”

Host: The clock struck midnight. The lights dimmed. Somewhere beyond the windows, the rain stopped, and the city exhaled.

Jack and Jeeny stood in front of the painting, side by side — two silhouettes in the quiet hum of the gallery, surrounded by unseen beauty.

The camera would slowly pull back, framing them against the dark canvas, the edges of their figures merging with the colors — a visual metaphor of what Cho meant: that beauty doesn’t vanish in the absence of sight. It waits, endures, exists — stubbornly, faithfully, unseen but unbroken.

And as the scene faded into black, only Jeeny’s voice remained, soft and certain:

Jeeny: “Just because you can’t see it, Jack... doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”

Host: The screen would linger on that last line, suspended in the quiet air — a reminder that the unseen, too, is alive, and always has been.