My attitude is, if someone's going to criticize me, tell me to my

Host: The rain had finally stopped, leaving the city slick and gleaming under the pale glow of streetlights. Inside a dimly lit bar, the air smelled of whiskey, wood smoke, and the kind of honesty people only spoke after midnight. The faint hum of an old jukebox murmured in the corner — a broken tune on repeat, like an old regret that wouldn’t fade.

Jack sat at the bar, a half-empty glass beside him, his reflection fractured in the mirror behind the bottles. Jeeny walked in from the cold, her hair damp, her coat dripping tiny beads of rain onto the wooden floor. She slid onto the stool beside him without a word.

Host: They didn’t speak for a moment. Only the low crackle of the neon sign outside flickering through the window — “OPEN,” it said, but it looked tired of pretending.

Jeeny: “Simon Cowell once said, ‘My attitude is, if someone’s going to criticize me, tell me to my face.’ I’ve been thinking about that tonight.”

Jack: “Fitting choice. He made a career out of criticism.”

Jeeny: “He made a career out of truth. There’s a difference.”

Host: Jack turned slightly, his grey eyes catching the light, cool and unreadable.

Jack: “Truth? You call what he did truth? He humiliated people on live television, Jeeny. That wasn’t honesty — that was theater.”

Jeeny: “Theater, maybe. But at least it was real. Better that than the fake smiles people wear while stabbing you in the back.”

Jack: “You think brutal honesty makes someone noble?”

Jeeny: “No. But it makes them clear. And that’s a rare kind of kindness.”

Host: Her voice carried a quiet edge, soft but sharp. Jack’s jaw tightened — he’d heard too many sugarcoated lies in his life to trust sweetness anymore.

Jack: “There’s nothing kind about tearing someone down in public. Honesty without empathy is just cruelty with good marketing.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But hypocrisy is worse. You know what kills people faster than harsh truth? Silence — pretending everything’s fine when it’s not.”

Jack: “So what, you’d rather someone look you in the eye and tell you you’re worthless?”

Jeeny: “I’d rather they respect me enough to say it to my face. You can’t grow from whispers.”

Host: Her fingers traced the rim of her glass, a nervous rhythm keeping time with her heart. Outside, a taxi hissed through the wet street, its lights momentarily flashing across her face — defiant, but weary.

Jack: “You romanticize confrontation, Jeeny. Most people don’t want truth — they want comfort. That’s why polite lies are the currency of civilization.”

Jeeny: “Civilization built on lies is just a stage set waiting to collapse. Tell me, Jack, would you rather live in comfort or in clarity?”

Jack: “Clarity doesn’t fill stomachs or pay rent. Comfort does.”

Jeeny: “So you’d trade your self-respect for convenience?”

Jack: “I’d trade my self-delusion for peace.”

Host: Their voices dropped lower now — not shouting, but cutting deeper. The bar was nearly empty, save for the bartender wiping down the counter, pretending not to listen but drinking in every word.

Jeeny: “You talk about peace like it’s the absence of truth. Real peace only comes when you stop pretending.”

Jack: “And what about kindness? What about mercy? Is your truth worth someone’s dignity?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. Because mercy without honesty is just pity in disguise.”

Host: The clock above the bar ticked, each second louder than the last. A bottle clinked. Somewhere, a chair scraped. The conversation hung like smoke — dense, slow, refusing to dissipate.

Jack: “You think Cowell’s attitude is admirable — fine. But tell me, how many people did his ‘truth’ destroy before it inspired anyone?”

Jeeny: “Maybe a few. But how many did he wake up? How many people went home and worked harder, learned, improved, grew? He didn’t give them comfort — he gave them a mirror. Not everyone can handle what they see.”

Jack: “You’re saying the world needs more Simons.”

Jeeny: “No. The world needs more courage. People who’ll stand in front of you and speak the truth, not hide behind screens or whispers. You know, like we used to do before everyone got so fragile.”

Host: Her words landed heavy. Jack stared into his glass, watching the last ice cube melt — a small, silent surrender.

Jack: “There’s a difference between speaking truth and enjoying the pain it causes. I’ve seen too many people weaponize honesty.”

Jeeny: “Then that’s not honesty — that’s ego. True honesty is hard. It risks rejection, anger, loss. That’s why most people avoid it.”

Jack: “Maybe they avoid it because they’ve already had enough pain.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe they avoid it because they’ve never faced themselves.”

Host: The jukebox sputtered out, its music dying mid-note. For a long moment, neither spoke. The silence felt like confession.

Jack: “You think you could handle it, then? Someone telling you everything they really think of you?”

Jeeny: “Yes. I’d rather be wounded by truth than comforted by deceit.”

Jack: “Even if that truth was cruel?”

Jeeny: “Especially then. Because at least I’d know where I stand.”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly, not from fear — but from conviction so deep it hurt. Jack studied her — this small woman who carried fire like it was faith.

Jack: “You’re dangerous when you believe things this strongly.”

Jeeny: “And you’re safe when you stop believing at all.”

Host: He smiled faintly, but there was no joy in it. Just a man recognizing the shadow of his own past in someone else’s hope.

Jack: “You know, I used to think like you. When I was younger. Thought truth could change people. Then I realized — it only changes those who want to be changed.”

Jeeny: “That doesn’t make it any less necessary. The truth doesn’t stop mattering just because people don’t like it.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, quiet but immovable. Jack turned his gaze to the mirror, where both their reflections shimmered — two souls caught between light and smoke.

Jack: “So, if I tell you right now that your idealism makes you naïve — you’d thank me?”

Jeeny: “I’d thank you for saying it to my face.”

Host: There it was — the spark between them. No anger, just an understanding carved from the same stone of stubbornness. Jack looked down, chuckled softly, and nodded.

Jack: “Fair enough.”

Jeeny: “Honesty isn’t cruelty, Jack. It’s respect. That’s what people forget.”

Jack: “And what if respect means staying silent to spare someone’s peace?”

Jeeny: “Then it’s not respect — it’s fear dressed as kindness.”

Host: The rain began again — light, hesitant — tapping against the windows like a quiet applause. Jeeny drained her glass and stood, pulling her coat tighter.

Jeeny: “If someone’s going to criticize me, I want them to do it looking me in the eye. Because then, even if I fall — I’ll know the blow was honest.”

Jack: “And if it breaks you?”

Jeeny: “Then I’ll rebuild. But I won’t live wondering what they said behind my back.”

Host: She turned toward the door, her silhouette framed by the soft neon glow. Jack watched her go, the faintest trace of something — admiration, perhaps — flickering across his face.

As the door closed behind her, the bar returned to its quiet rhythm. The rain whispered secrets outside.

Jack lifted his glass in a small, ironic salute to the empty room.

Jack: “To truth — the one thing people claim to want but never stay for.”

Host: The light above him flickered once, then steadied. In the mirror, his reflection stared back — older, wearier, but honest.

Host: And somewhere, outside in the endless rain, Jeeny walked on — her steps steady, her heart unshaken — still believing that truth, even when it hurt, was the only real form of respect left in the world.

Host: The neon flickered once more before fading into darkness. Silence. Then — just faintly — the sound of her laughter echoing down the street, like defiance set to music.