Sunscreen is my number one beauty product that goes on even when

Host: The morning light slid through the wide windows of a downtown studio, soft and clinical, the kind that turns dust into glitter. The room smelled faintly of makeup, coffee, and ambition — a quiet symphony of vanity and survival. A large mirror dominated the wall, ringed with glowing bulbs. Beneath it, an array of bottles, brushes, and jars stood like soldiers in the eternal war against time.

Jeeny sat at the mirror, her fingers gently smoothing a thin layer of sunscreen onto her skin, its sheen catching the light. Jack leaned against the opposite wall, his arms crossed, his reflection hovering behind hers — like a shadow that refused to disappear.

Outside, the city hummed — an orchestra of honking horns, elevator bells, and footsteps moving toward purpose.

Jeeny: (Softly.) “Liz Goldwyn once said, ‘Sunscreen is my number one beauty product that goes on even when I am indoors.’” (She looks at herself in the mirror.) “She wasn’t just talking about skincare, Jack.”

Jack: (Smirking.) “No? What, then — a metaphor for emotional SPF?”

Jeeny: (Smiling faintly.) “Exactly that. Protection from the invisible things that burn you.”

Jack: “So you put on armor before you even leave the house?”

Jeeny: “We all do. Some people wear sarcasm. Some wear ambition. I wear sunscreen.”

Host: The mirror caught their faces together — his cynical calm beside her deliberate poise. The light flickered slightly, as if undecided between the two.

Jack: “That’s the problem, though, isn’t it? Everyone’s protecting themselves all the time. From the sun, from pain, from truth. You spend so long shielding yourself that when something real finally touches you, you don’t even feel it.”

Jeeny: “And you think that’s noble? Walking through fire bare-skinned just to prove you’re human?”

Jack: “At least it’s honest.”

Jeeny: “Honesty without care is just another way of burning faster.”

Host: A pause stretched between them — quiet, almost tender. The buzz of city life seeped faintly through the window. Somewhere below, a siren rose and fell like an echo of urgency neither could answer.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I thought beauty was the people who didn’t try. The ones who didn’t hide anything. But now…” (He stops, glancing at her reflection.) “Now I think beauty is what survives the exposure.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly why I wear it. Sunscreen isn’t vanity. It’s rebellion. It’s saying: I will not let the world erode me before I’m done being myself.”

Jack: “Rebellion? That’s a stretch.”

Jeeny: “Not at all. Think about it. The world profits off our decay — our aging, our exhaustion, our insecurities. Every billboard says, ‘You’re not enough.’ Sunscreen is the quietest protest there is. It’s saying, ‘I plan to last.’”

Host: She leaned closer to the mirror, the light reflecting off her face, soft and defiant. Jack watched her in silence, his jaw tightening, his hands flexing slightly as if something inside him wanted to move — to act, to argue, to agree.

Jack: “You sound like you’re preparing for battle every morning.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I am. Against everything that tries to wear me down — pollution, cynicism, heartbreak, headlines, you.”

Jack: “Me?”

Jeeny: “You’re the biggest sun of them all, Jack. Blinding, brilliant, and impossible not to get burned by.”

Host: Her tone carried half a laugh, half a truth she wasn’t sure she wanted to admit. Jack looked away, the edge of a smile tugging at his mouth, but his eyes — those grey, storm-bitten eyes — softened.

Jack: “You ever think protection can become a prison? That maybe all these little rituals — creams, filters, sarcasm — are just ways to avoid feeling raw? Maybe we’re not preserving ourselves. Maybe we’re embalming ourselves while we’re still alive.”

Jeeny: (Turning from the mirror.) “That’s what you don’t understand. Protecting yourself doesn’t mean you’ve stopped feeling. It just means you’ve learned where to place the tenderness.”

Jack: “And what happens when you forget to take the armor off?”

Jeeny: “Then someone else has to remind you it’s safe to.”

Host: The air shifted — not heavy, but charged. The sound of a nearby train rumbled faintly beneath their feet, as if the city itself had a pulse.

Jack: “You think love does that? Reminds you it’s safe?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. Other times, love is the sunlight — and you have to decide how much of it you can survive.”

Jack: “So we’re all just photosensitive creatures — loving in doses, hiding from what warms us most.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the cost of being human. You crave light, even when you know it hurts.”

Jack: “You sound like you’ve rehearsed that.”

Jeeny: “No. I’ve lived it.”

Host: A small silence followed — not empty, but full. The city beyond the window was fully awake now. The horns, the sirens, the conversations below blended into a living score of morning life.

Jack: “You know, I used to think beauty was about what you show the world. But now I think it’s about what you keep from it — the part that doesn’t get sunburned.”

Jeeny: “That’s the truest thing you’ve said in months.”

Jack: “Don’t get used to it.”

Jeeny: “Too late.” (Smiles.) “You see, Jack — even you wear sunscreen. It’s just invisible.”

Jack: “Mine’s made of sarcasm and caffeine.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The SPF of avoidance.”

Jack: (Laughs quietly.) “Touché.”

Host: The light had shifted — no longer cold, no longer sharp. It fell across their faces evenly now, soft as if forgiving. Jeeny capped the bottle of sunscreen, set it down beside the mirror, and turned toward Jack fully for the first time that morning.

Jeeny: “You think it’s foolish to care about these little things — SPF, rituals, softness. But maybe they’re the last places left where we can choose how we meet the world. Maybe that’s not vanity. Maybe it’s grace.”

Jack: “Grace in a bottle.”

Jeeny: “No. Grace in remembering to protect what’s still gentle.”

Host: He stared at her for a long time, the faintest hint of warmth returning to his expression. Outside, the morning deepened — the streets alive, the air humming, the sun rising higher, indifferent and beautiful.

Jack finally reached for the bottle, turned it in his hand, reading the small print on the label.

Jack: “You really put this on even when you’re indoors?”

Jeeny: “Always. Light doesn’t ask permission before it touches you.”

Jack: (Quietly.) “Neither does pain.”

Jeeny: “Which is why we learn to face both.”

Host: She smiled — not in defiance, but in understanding. The mirror caught the reflection of the two of them — the protector and the skeptic, the sun and the shade — both a little exposed now, both a little less afraid.

Outside, the light grew stronger, spilling through the window in broad, unapologetic strokes.

The camera lingered on the sunscreen bottle, catching the way it gleamed — small, ordinary, miraculous. Then it drifted upward to their reflections, where Jack and Jeeny stood in that golden frame of morning, caught between vanity and survival, beauty and truth.

And as the scene faded, the voice of the world whispered its small, defiant reminder — that sometimes, the bravest thing you can do isn’t to face the light unprotected,
but to keep loving it anyway, even when it burns.