Love is not always bed of roses. When its unfulfilled, it causes

Host: The night had a strange stillness, as if the air itself were listening. Outside the café, the city glowed in fragments — streetlights shimmering in puddles, the hum of traffic softened by distance, the moon hidden behind thin clouds like a shy witness.

Inside, the world seemed smaller — warm, smoky, intimate. A half-empty bottle of red wine sat between Jack and Jeeny, both quiet, both nursing their thoughts more than their drinks. The faint sound of an old Hindi song played through the speaker, its melody fragile and full of longing.

On the table, a crumpled napkin bore a handwritten quote — smudged in the middle where a drop of wine had fallen:

“Love is not always bed of roses. When it's unfulfilled, it causes immense pain and anger.”
— Ankit Tiwari

The line lingered between them like a confession neither wanted to own.

Jeeny: [quietly, staring into her glass] “Unfulfilled love… that’s the one that never stops growing, isn’t it? The kind that keeps blooming in memory, even after it dies in life.”

Jack: [nodding slowly] “Yeah. Because it never got the chance to decay. Fulfilled love becomes real — imperfect, ordinary. But the one that doesn’t? It stays divine and toxic all at once.”

Jeeny: [smiling faintly] “Toxic divinity. I like that.”

Jack: [smirking] “You wouldn’t if you lived through it.”

Host: The candle on their table flickered, its flame trembling against the glass like a heart refusing to steady itself.

Jeeny: [leaning back] “It’s strange, isn’t it? How love and pain are so connected. You can’t have one without the risk of the other.”

Jack: [quietly] “That’s what makes it real. Pain proves the investment.”

Jeeny: [softly] “You sound cynical.”

Jack: [shaking his head] “No — just experienced. Love that never hurt probably never mattered.”

Jeeny: [after a pause] “Maybe. But sometimes I wonder if unfulfilled love hurts more because it’s pure — untouched by compromise or time.”

Jack: [gently] “Or because it’s unfinished. There’s no closure. No end credits. Just the same scene playing forever.”

Host: The rain began outside, soft at first, then steady — tapping the windows like someone gently insisting on being let in.

Jeeny: [watching the rain] “You know, Ankit Tiwari’s right. Love is never just roses. It’s thorns too. But we keep reaching for it anyway.”

Jack: [quietly] “Because even the pain feels sacred when it comes from love.”

Jeeny: [looking at him] “You really believe that?”

Jack: [sighing] “I believe that the only thing worse than heartbreak is never having risked it.”

Jeeny: [nodding slowly] “Yes. Because to feel nothing is a colder death.”

Host: The lightning flashed briefly, illuminating the café’s window. For a heartbeat, their reflections appeared — two faces both illuminated and shadowed, both haunted by what they couldn’t say.

Jeeny: [softly] “Unfulfilled love has a strange dignity, doesn’t it? It’s the only kind that never has to face disappointment. It remains perfect — in absence.”

Jack: [quietly] “Yeah. It’s untouched by reality. You can’t betray someone who was never yours.”

Jeeny: [sadly smiling] “But you can spend your life loving their ghost.”

Jack: [after a pause] “And that’s the cruelest part — loving a version of someone that memory won’t let evolve.”

Host: The rain hit harder, echoing in rhythm with the jazz from the speaker. The café felt suspended between worlds — the one that ended and the one that refused to.

Jeeny: [thoughtfully] “You know what pain really is? It’s love that didn’t get to finish its sentence.”

Jack: [looking at her] “And anger?”

Jeeny: [quietly] “Anger is the echo — the resentment of still feeling something when the other person doesn’t.”

Jack: [softly] “Yeah. Anger is love with no place to go.”

Jeeny: [nodding] “And that’s why unfulfilled love burns longer — because it has nowhere to land.”

Host: The music softened, the melody fading into a slow instrumental. Outside, the rain began to ease, leaving only the occasional drop sliding down the glass like a tear refusing to fall.

Jack: [after a silence] “You ever think maybe love isn’t meant to be fulfilled? That maybe its purpose is just to wake us up — to make us feel alive for a while, even if it hurts?”

Jeeny: [smiling faintly] “That sounds like something you’d say to make peace with regret.”

Jack: [smiling back] “Maybe. But even regret is proof of living.”

Jeeny: [softly] “So love, even when unreturned, is still a kind of victory.”

Jack: [quietly] “The most painful kind — but yes.”

Host: The clock ticked on the café wall, its sound gentle but relentless — the rhythm of endings disguised as continuance.

Jeeny: [after a long silence] “You know, pain has its own beauty. It sharpens you. Makes you more compassionate.”

Jack: [nodding] “If you let it. But if you feed it too long, it curdles into bitterness.”

Jeeny: [softly] “So the trick is to love, lose, and still stay tender.”

Jack: [smiling] “That’s not a trick. That’s wisdom bought with blood.”

Jeeny: [quietly] “And maybe that’s what Ankit meant — that love isn’t supposed to be easy. It’s supposed to test the soul’s endurance.”

Jack: [softly] “And its capacity for forgiveness.”

Host: The rain stopped entirely now. The world outside looked cleansed — streets glistening, reflections rippling in the puddles, everything temporarily forgiven.

Jeeny: [reaching for her coat] “You know what I think? Unfulfilled love never really ends. It just changes form — into music, poetry, silence.”

Jack: [standing too] “Or into something quieter — gratitude.”

Jeeny: [smiling faintly] “Gratitude for the ache?”

Jack: [softly] “For having felt anything at all.”

Host: The lights dimmed, and the café’s last candle flickered out. Outside, the moon had returned, its pale reflection lying gently across the street like a silver promise — fragile, unfinished, real.

On the table, the crumpled napkin remained — ink blurred but legible, the truth still intact:

“Love is not always bed of roses. When it's unfulfilled, it causes immense pain and anger.”

Host: Because love is not designed for perfection —
it’s designed for depth.

It wounds because it awakens.
It hurts because it holds.
It angers because it reminds us we are still capable of feeling.

And perhaps, in the quiet aftermath of all that pain,
we discover the secret no perfect love ever teaches —

that the ache itself is proof that we once touched something real.