The essence of romantic love is that wonderful beginning, after

Host:
The evening fog rolled in thick and low over the river, swallowing the far bank until it looked like the edge of the world. Street lamps glowed like amber ghosts, their reflections trembling across the wet cobblestones. The air was cool, the kind that wraps itself around you like memory — a soft, aching chill that feels older than grief itself.

At the railing near the water, Jack leaned with his elbows resting on the cold iron, his grey eyes distant, almost tender. Behind him, the sound of footsteps echoed — slow, deliberate, familiar.

Jeeny appeared through the fog, her brown eyes luminous, her expression calm but haunted by something that lived deeper than sorrow — an understanding. She stopped beside him, close but not touching. For a moment, they watched the river together, silent as two ghosts sharing the same dream.

Then she spoke, her voice low, her words carrying the weight of both confession and prophecy:

"The essence of romantic love is that wonderful beginning, after which sadness and impossibility may become the rule." — Anita Brookner

Jack:
(quietly)
So it’s not just me, then. Even the greats admit that romance comes with an expiration date.

Jeeny:
(smiling faintly)
Not an expiration. A transformation.

Jack:
That’s a beautiful lie.

Jeeny:
Or a painful truth.

Jack:
So, according to Brookner, love’s just a beautiful spark before the long dark.

Jeeny:
Not just. That spark changes everything. It’s the moment you see the world as it could be — before you realize how impossible it is to keep it that way.

Jack:
So love’s like a window that closes too soon.

Jeeny:
No. Love’s the light that shines through it before it does.

Host:
The fog thickened, swirling around them like smoke from a dying candle. A distant bell rang from somewhere upriver — slow, mournful, echoing through the mist.

Jack:
It’s strange, isn’t it? The way beginnings feel infinite.

Jeeny:
That’s because we mistake intensity for eternity.

Jack:
And when it fades, we call it betrayal.

Jeeny:
When it fades, we call it truth.

Jack:
You sound so calm about it.

Jeeny:
I’m not calm. I’ve just learned to love the beginning for what it is — not for how long it lasts.

Jack:
(smirking faintly)
So you’ve made peace with the temporary.

Jeeny:
No — I’ve made peace with the impossible.

Host:
The river moved slowly, reflecting the faint glow of the city lights like threads of gold unraveling. A single leaf floated past them, spinning gently in the current before disappearing into the mist.

Jack:
You think that’s why people keep falling in love — because they forget it always ends?

Jeeny:
Because they hope this time, it won’t.

Jack:
And it always does.

Jeeny:
Not always. But even if it does, that doesn’t make it meaningless.

Jack:
No — just merciless.

Jeeny:
(smiling softly)
Mercy’s overrated. Wonder isn’t.

Jack:
So you’d rather have the wonder, even if it breaks you?

Jeeny:
Every time. Because what’s the alternative? Never feeling it at all?

Jack:
That’s safer.

Jeeny:
That’s emptier.

Host:
The wind shifted, bringing with it the scent of rain. The first drops began to fall — slow, deliberate, like punctuation in a sentence that had been waiting too long to end.

Jack:
You know, beginnings really do feel sacred. You meet someone, and suddenly every sound, every shadow, feels like a sign.

Jeeny:
Yes. Love turns ordinary time into revelation.

Jack:
And then the revelations stop.

Jeeny:
No — we just stop listening.

Jack:
You think it’s that simple?

Jeeny:
It’s never simple. But love fades because we keep expecting it to stay like the beginning — when it was never meant to.

Jack:
(sighing)
So the beginning’s a lie.

Jeeny:
No. The beginning is a truth too bright to sustain.

Jack:
Like staring into the sun.

Jeeny:
(smiling)
Exactly. You don’t blame the sun when your eyes burn.

Host:
The rain deepened, drumming softly on the railing. Jeeny reached out her hand, catching droplets in her palm. The water glistened briefly before vanishing — like all beautiful things do when you try to hold them.

Jack:
I hate that part — the fading. The way everything turns from promise to maintenance.

Jeeny:
That’s not decay, Jack. That’s life. Love that survives the fading becomes something quieter — not fireworks, but firelight.

Jack:
Firelight’s not enough for some people.

Jeeny:
Then they’ll always live in the dark, waiting for the next spark.

Jack:
Maybe that’s what makes romantics both blessed and cursed. We never stop chasing that first flash.

Jeeny:
And yet, every time we find it, we call it fate.

Jack:
And when we lose it, we call it tragedy.

Jeeny:
But maybe they’re the same thing.

Host:
The rain shimmered under the glow of the lampposts, like liquid gold falling from nowhere. A ferry horn echoed from somewhere across the water — distant, mournful, inevitable.

Jeeny:
You know what I think Brookner was really saying? That the sadness isn’t a flaw in love — it’s part of its design.

Jack:
Because without impossibility, it wouldn’t feel miraculous.

Jeeny:
Exactly. Love’s value is in its fragility. Its rarity. Its mortality.

Jack:
You talk about heartbreak like it’s a sacrament.

Jeeny:
Maybe it is. Every ending proves we were brave enough to begin.

Jack:
(quietly)
And every beginning is just another way to say goodbye in advance.

Jeeny:
(softly)
Yes — but what a beautiful goodbye it is.

Host:
The fog drifted lower, wrapping them in a kind of twilight cocoon. For a moment, it felt like the world outside the riverbank had vanished — as though time itself had paused to listen to the truth they’d just uncovered.

Jack:
So, love starts like a song, and ends like silence.

Jeeny:
No. It ends like an echo. Still carrying pieces of the music that made it possible.

Jack:
(smiling faintly)
You always find poetry in the ruins.

Jeeny:
Because the ruins are proof there was once a temple.

Jack:
And you think that’s enough?

Jeeny:
It has to be. The beginning is a gift; the sadness is the cost.

Jack:
(pauses)
Then I guess being human is just learning to pay it gracefully.

Jeeny:
Yes. With gratitude, even for the ache.

Host:
The rain softened, falling now as mist. The city lights blurred across the river, glowing like lanterns underwater. Jack turned toward Jeeny at last, and for a brief moment, both looked like figures in a painting — caught between hope and memory.

Host:
And in that suspended stillness, Anita Brookner’s words unfolded their truth — tender, inevitable, immortal:

That the essence of romantic love lies not in its permanence,
but in its beginning —
in the breathtaking moment when two souls recognize possibility
before reality begins to press in.

That every sadness which follows
is not failure, but fulfillment of love’s true nature —
for the heart that feels deeply must also mourn deeply.

That the impossibility of love
is what makes it sacred —
a fleeting brush with the infinite,
a mortal glimpse of eternity.

And perhaps the greatest grace of all
is to remember that even as love fades,
its beginning remains untouched —
perfect, eternal, beyond the reach of time.

The fog lifted slightly,
revealing the shimmer of dawn across the water.
Jack and Jeeny stood there quietly,
their hands almost touching,
the silence between them filled
not with loss,
but with a strange, exquisite gratitude —
for the beauty of beginnings,
and the courage to love
knowing how it ends.