The pleasures of love are always in proportion to our fears.

Host: The night hummed softly in the narrow Parisian alley, where rainwater shimmered like spilled mercury beneath the streetlamps. Through the window of a dim café, two figures sat opposite each other — the hum of a dying espresso machine, the faint smell of tobacco, and the slow rhythm of the rain holding them together in silence.

The clock on the wall ticked with mechanical patience, marking each second like a drop of fate. Jack sat half in shadow, coat collar raised, eyes weary but alert — a man who measured love like a deal, not a dream. Jeeny, by contrast, leaned forward, her hair falling across her face, her eyes bright and vulnerable, like she still believed love was worth the burn.

Between them lay the quote — written on a crumpled paper napkin: “The pleasures of love are always in proportion to our fears.” — Stendhal.

Jeeny: “He was right, you know.” Her voice trembled slightly, though her words didn’t. “Love and fear are twins. The more you care, the more you tremble. That’s what makes it beautiful — the risk.”

Jack: “Or pathetic,” he said dryly, lighting a cigarette. The flame flickered, then faded into the smoke. “You call it trembling; I call it vulnerability addiction. People get high on danger, on losing control. Fear’s not pleasure — it’s dependency.”

Host: The rain pressed harder against the windows, the light from passing cars sweeping over their faces in waves of gold and blue. Jeeny’s hand brushed the rim of her coffee cup, her fingers trembling, but her gaze unwavering.

Jeeny: “You think love can be clean? Safe? It’s not a contract, Jack. It’s a leap — that’s where the thrill comes from. When you could lose everything.”

Jack: “Exactly,” he said, exhaling smoke. “Fear is the engine. You strip it away, and love loses its pulse. It’s just comfort then — friendship in disguise.”

Jeeny: “So you admit it — fear gives it meaning.”

Jack: “No,” he said, shaking his head. “Fear gives it illusion. You confuse adrenaline with depth. Falling in love feels like falling because your brain’s panicking. Stendhal just romanticized anxiety.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the windowpane, the café light flickering for a moment before steadying. The sound of laughter from another table rippled through the air — too loud, too easy — and for a brief second, both of them looked toward it, like strangers watching a world they’d outgrown.

Jeeny: “Then why do you still smoke when you promised to quit?” she asked, her eyes narrowing. “You said it calms you, right? But really it’s the danger you like. You play with destruction because it reminds you you’re alive. Love is the same — it’s fire, not therapy.”

Jack: He gave a crooked smile, the kind that cut both ways. “So love’s an addiction now?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s a test of courage. The brave love deeply because they’re not afraid to be hurt. The fearful only love halfway — safe, polite, half-hearted.”

Jack: “And the brave end up destroyed. I’ve seen it. I’ve been it.”

Host: His voice dropped, quiet and heavy. The smoke from his cigarette curled between them like a ghost. For a moment, even the rain seemed to pause, waiting for something that wouldn’t be said.

Jeeny: “You’re afraid of what it asks of you,” she said softly. “Afraid of being known.”

Jack: “I’m afraid of illusion,” he snapped. “Of how easily love rewrites logic. You start believing someone’s flaws are charm, their indifference is mystery. Fear feeds that — it distorts everything.”

Jeeny: “Maybe distortion is the point. Maybe love isn’t about seeing clearly, but seeing differently.”

Jack: “That’s poetic,” he said, “and dangerous. People who see differently end up blind.”

Host: The tension tightened, like the string of a violin pulled too far. Jeeny’s lips quivered, not from weakness but from the weight of everything she wasn’t saying. The air smelled of rain and old smoke, a blend of nostalgia and nerves.

Jeeny: “You talk like love is a calculation — risk management for the heart. But you know what? Even Stendhal fell apart for love. He fainted when he first saw the woman he adored. That’s not cowardice, Jack. That’s surrender. And surrender isn’t failure.”

Jack: “It’s exposure,” he said. “And exposure is weakness.”

Jeeny: “No — it’s honesty. The body’s truth when the mind’s defenses fall. You can’t measure passion without fear, because fear is proof that it matters.”

Host: The clock ticked louder, like a heartbeat in a hollow room. A waiter passed, refilling glasses, glancing at them with the discreet awareness of someone who’d seen too many couples implode under that same glow.

Jack: “You know what fear really measures?” he said after a pause. “Dependency. The moment your pleasure depends on someone else’s presence — you’re trapped. That’s not love, Jeeny. That’s surrendering your power.”

Jeeny: “And what’s the point of power if it isolates you?” she countered. “You think you’re free because you’re detached, but really, you’re just untouched. Fear keeps you safe — but it also keeps you empty.”

Jack: “Maybe emptiness is clarity.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said. “It’s anesthesia.”

Host: The lights flickered, and the rain softened, whispering against the window like a secret too intimate to tell aloud. Jack looked down, his hand tightening on his glass. For the first time, his eyes betrayed something raw — not cynicism, but memory.

Jack: “There was someone once,” he said quietly. “Years ago. She loved recklessly — too much, too fast. I admired it. I feared it. When she looked at me, it was like standing too close to the sun. Beautiful, yes — but blinding. I left before I burned.”

Jeeny: “And have you felt warmth since?” she whispered.

Jack: “No,” he admitted. “But I’ve survived.”

Jeeny: “Survival isn’t living.”

Host: The silence that followed was heavy, full of things unsaid, the kind that only exists between two people who have already said too much. Outside, the rain ceased, leaving only the sound of tires against wet asphalt, a rhythm like slow applause.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack,” she said, “Stendhal wasn’t glorifying fear. He was revealing it — showing that love isn’t powerful despite fear, but because of it. Fear proves we’ve found something that matters enough to lose.”

Jack: “And when we lose it?”

Jeeny: “Then we fear less next time — or love better. Sometimes both.”

Jack: “You talk like pain refines people. It doesn’t. It just scars them.”

Jeeny: “Only if they stop touching the wound.”

Host: Her voice cracked, but her eyes blazed with quiet defiance. Jack’s jaw tightened, torn between wanting to argue and wanting to believe her. The light from the window cast a thin halo around her face — fragile, radiant, defiant.

Jack: “You really think fear is what keeps love alive?”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she said simply. “Because fear makes us careful. Tender. It reminds us how easily we can break each other — and how miraculous it is that we still try not to.”

Jack: “So the pleasure comes from fragility?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The same way music is beautiful because it ends. Or how stars are precious because they burn out. Fear is the shadow that defines the light.”

Host: He looked at her then — really looked — and something inside him shifted. The cigarette burned out in his hand, a thin line of ash falling into the cup. For once, his silence wasn’t defense, but reflection.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right,” he said finally, his voice low, almost tender. “Maybe I’ve been trying to build love without risk — and ended up with safety instead of passion.”

Jeeny: “Safety isn’t love, Jack. It’s fear pretending to be peace.”

Host: The rain began again, but softer this time — as if the sky itself had grown gentle. The café lights flickered, catching the silver sheen of water on the window.

They sat in the quiet, no longer adversaries but two souls suspended between fear and desire, logic and longing.

Jack: “So, if pleasure is in proportion to fear,” he murmured, “then maybe the ones who fear the most… love the deepest.”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she said, her smile trembling. “Because they know what it costs.”

Host: The camera would linger here — on their faces, on the half-empty cups, on the raindrops gliding down the glass. The street outside shimmered like liquid memory, while inside, two hearts — equally afraid, equally alive — reached a silent truce.

And in that fragile peace, they discovered what Stendhal meant:
that love’s pleasure is not in the absence of fear,
but in the courage to love despite it.