Love myself I do. Not everything, but I love the good as well as

Host: The rain had just stopped, leaving the city streets glistening beneath a pale moonlight. Steam rose from the pavement, curling into the cold air like ghosts of all that had been washed away. A small café on the corner flickered with amber light, and through its fogged windows, two figures sat in quiet conversation.

Jack leaned back, his grey eyes reflecting the neon signs outside. His hands were wrapped around a half-empty glass of whiskey, the ice melting slowly like patience. Jeeny sat across from him, her dark hair pulled behind her ear, her eyes alive with a quiet warmth that could cut through the chill.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of the rain dripping from the awning, and the faint hum of a radio playing an old blues tune.

Jeeny broke the silence first, her voice soft, yet steady.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, Johnny Weir once said something that always stayed with me — ‘Love myself I do. Not everything, but I love the good as well as the bad.’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Sounds like something people say when they’re trying to make peace with their own mess.”

Host: The light flickered, catching the edge of Jack’s jawline, the shadow of tired eyes revealing more than his words ever would.

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s not about peace. Maybe it’s about honesty — admitting that you’re both the storm and the shelter.”

Jack: “Honesty, sure. But there’s a fine line between honesty and self-delusion. People love to romanticize their flaws — call them ‘quirks,’ or ‘scars,’ instead of what they are: mistakes.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the point of being human? To learn, to fall, to still find something beautiful in the broken parts? Look at Frida Kahlo. She painted her pain — every wound, every betrayal — and through it, she found power.”

Host: The café door opened briefly, letting in a gust of wind that made the candles flicker. For a heartbeat, both their faces were lit by the dancing flame — hers soft, alive, his sharp, uncertain.

Jack: “Kahlo turned her pain into art. But not everyone’s a painter, Jeeny. Most people drown in it. They say they ‘love themselves,’ but really they’re just pretending not to hate who they’ve become.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. That’s where you’re wrong. Self-love isn’t pretending. It’s surviving. It’s saying, ‘I’ll keep walking even when I’m limping.’ That’s strength, not delusion.”

Host: Her fingers tightened around the coffee mug, the steam rising between them like a soft veil. Outside, a car passed, its reflection rippling across the windowpane like liquid glass.

Jack: “Strength? Maybe. But don’t tell me you’ve never looked in the mirror and hated what you saw. Everyone does. It’s part of what drives us — the dissatisfaction. If you start loving everything about yourself, what’s left to improve?”

Jeeny: (leaning forward) “That’s where you confuse love with complacency. Loving yourself doesn’t mean you stop growing. It means you stop bleeding every time you look inside.”

Host: The air between them grew heavier, charged with an invisible tension, like two currents colliding beneath the surface.

Jack: “Then tell me, how do you love the bad parts? The parts that hurt people, that make you ashamed?”

Jeeny: “By facing them. By forgiving them. You can’t amputate your shadow and call it healing. It’ll just find another way to come back.”

Jack: “You sound like a priest.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “And you sound like a man who stopped believing in redemption.”

Host: Jack looked away, his eyes tracing the rain streaks on the glass. His reflection blurred in the faint light, as if even the window refused to define him clearly.

Jack: “Redemption’s for people who think they can change the past. I don’t. You just carry it — like a scar you don’t show.”

Jeeny: “But even scars have stories, Jack. You carry them because you survived. Isn’t that something worth loving?”

Host: Jack laughed quietly, a dry, hollow sound that echoed against the walls.

Jack: “You make it sound noble. But most of us just make do. We keep moving because stopping hurts more.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But that’s still love — even if it’s not the kind you see in movies. It’s love when you get out of bed after failing. It’s love when you forgive yourself for saying something cruel. It’s love when you try again.”

Host: The music changed — a slower tune, older, with a melody that seemed to fold around them like memory. The rain began again, gentle this time, as if the sky was tired too.

Jack: “You talk about love like it’s a war you can win with kindness.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s a war you learn to stop fighting. That’s the discipline Weir talked about — loving your chaos and your control. You can’t have one without the other.”

Jack: “Freedom of speech, chaos, control… sounds like contradictions wrapped in poetry.”

Jeeny: “Everything true is a contradiction. You, me, this city, even the weather tonight — half-storm, half-calm.”

Host: Jack’s fingers drummed against the table, a quiet rhythm that betrayed his unease. His eyes, though weary, softened just enough to reveal the man beneath the armor.

Jack: “So what, Jeeny? You think loving yourself means accepting every ugly truth? Even the parts that ruin other people’s lives?”

Jeeny: “No. Loving yourself means taking responsibility for them — not pretending they don’t exist. You can’t grow from denial. You grow from acknowledgment.”

Jack: “That sounds dangerously close to guilt.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s awareness. Guilt keeps you chained to what you did. Awareness helps you change what you’ll do next.”

Host: A small silence followed — not empty, but alive with thought. The clock on the wall ticked faintly, marking the rhythm of something shifting between them.

Jack: “You really believe people can love themselves completely?”

Jeeny: “No. But I believe they can try. And maybe that’s enough. To love the good and the bad, as Weir said — to love your tired eyes, your broken trust, your freedom and your fear.”

Host: The wind blew harder outside, rattling the windows, as if the night itself wanted to join their argument.

Jack: “You make it sound poetic, but life doesn’t forgive easily. You love, you trust, and someone always breaks it. You end up learning not to try.”

Jeeny: “And yet here you are, still talking about it. Still feeling. That’s proof enough you haven’t given up.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. His eyes flickered, the faintest hint of vulnerability crossing them like light across stone.

Jack: “Maybe I haven’t. Maybe I just don’t know what love really means anymore.”

Jeeny: “It means being proud of what you are — and what you’ll become. Even if you’re still becoming it.”

Host: The clock ticked again, slower this time, as if time itself had taken a breath. Outside, the rain eased, turning into a soft mist that blurred the streetlights into golden halos.

Jack: “You know… I envy that kind of faith. To love yourself even when you’re falling apart.”

Jeeny: “It’s not faith, Jack. It’s choice. Every morning, you choose to not hate yourself. Some days you fail. But then you try again.”

Host: The café grew quieter, the air thick with something unspoken yet understood. Jack reached for his coat, but his movements slowed, as if reluctant to break the fragile peace that had finally settled between them.

Jack: “You’re right, Jeeny. Maybe loving yourself isn’t about liking what you see. Maybe it’s just about not turning away.”

Jeeny: (smiling gently) “Exactly. That’s where it begins.”

Host: The light outside dimmed, but inside the café, the candles burned steady — small, persistent flames that refused to die. Jeeny looked out the window, watching the mist swirl like a veil around the city’s quiet heartbeat.

Jack took one last sip, his grey eyes softer now, no longer guarded but alive with a quiet acceptance.

Jack: “To the good and the bad, then.”

Jeeny: “To all of it.”

Host: And as they clinked glasses, the night folded around them — the storm, the silence, the fragile beauty of being human. The city lights flickered, and for one suspended moment, it felt as if even the world had paused to listen to two souls learning to forgive themselves.