The romantic love we feel toward the opposite sex is probably one

Host: The evening had fallen slow and heavy over the city, washing the skyline in strokes of blue and amber. Inside a small apartment overlooking the rain-blurred street, the air was thick with the smell of jasmine tea and the low hum of a half-broken radio.

The window was open, and the faint sound of laughter from the street below drifted up — young lovers running under umbrellas, their voices breaking against the wet night.

Jack sat on the couch, sleeves rolled, a cup of untouched tea cooling beside him. Jeeny stood by the window, her reflection split between glass and rain, her face softened by the dim glow of the streetlight.

Jeeny: “They look so alive out there, don’t they? Like they believe love is enough.”

Jack: “It always starts that way. Joan Chen said it best — ‘The romantic love we feel toward the opposite sex is probably one extra help from God to bring you together, but that’s it. All the rest of it, the true love, is the test.’”

Host: The room held its breath. The rain drummed softly on the glass. A single candle flickered on the coffee table, its flame wavering like a heartbeat unsure of itself.

Jeeny: “A test. You say it like love’s an exam you can fail.”

Jack: “That’s because most people do. The romantic part — the spark, the thrill — it’s a gift, sure. But it fades. The real part — staying, forgiving, choosing someone again and again after the magic’s gone — that’s the hard part. That’s the test.”

Jeeny: turning toward him “You sound so certain. Like you’ve seen every ending already.”

Jack: “I’ve seen enough. The beginning’s easy — dopamine, laughter, late-night calls. The test comes later, when the silence feels longer than the laughter, and the person beside you starts to feel like a stranger.”

Host: Jeeny moved closer, her footsteps soft against the old floorboards. Her eyes, dark and alive, studied him as if searching for the man behind the armor.

Jeeny: “You make love sound like a punishment.”

Jack: “Not a punishment. A process. Like heat turning iron into steel. Without it, it breaks.”

Jeeny: “And yet, most people walk into it expecting fireworks, not fire.”

Jack: “That’s why most people run when the heat starts.”

Host: The radio crackled faintly — a slow, melancholic melody, distant and haunting, like a forgotten confession.

Jeeny: “You know what I think, Jack? The ‘help from God’ she talks about — that first spark — it’s not supposed to fade. It’s supposed to transform. Maybe love isn’t meant to stay romantic, but to become something deeper, quieter, sacred.”

Jack: “Sacred? You think choosing to stay when you want to leave is holy?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because it means you’re loving with your will, not just your feelings. Anyone can love when it’s easy. The test is when it’s not.”

Jack: “Then what happens when love fails the test? When the other person stops showing up, stops trying?”

Jeeny: “Then you love differently. Sometimes the test isn’t about staying — it’s about letting go without bitterness.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, and his eyes drifted to the rain-soaked window. For a moment, the silence in the room was thick enough to drown in.

Jack: “You talk like you’ve passed the test already.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I’ve just learned how it feels to fail it.”

Host: The light flickered again, casting shifting shadows across the room. The rain outside softened into a whisper, the kind that sounds almost like forgiveness.

Jack: “You ever wonder why God would make love start so beautifully if He knew it would end in pain?”

Jeeny: “Because without the beauty, no one would dare begin.”

Host: Jack laughed — low, rough, almost breaking. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes reflecting both the candle’s light and something weary beneath it.

Jack: “So what then? We fall in love so we can be tested? Sounds like divine cruelty.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s divine mercy. The test isn’t punishment — it’s transformation. Love reveals who we are under the layers. It burns away the illusion.”

Jack: “And what if there’s nothing left after it burns?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s the point. Maybe the ashes are more honest than the fire.”

Host: The candle flame trembled, as if reacting to her words. Jack’s hand brushed across the table, steadying the cup he hadn’t touched.

Jack: “You make it sound poetic, but love isn’t poetry. It’s logistics, compromise, survival.”

Jeeny: “And yet here you are quoting Joan Chen in a candlelit room. Don’t tell me you don’t believe in poetry.”

Host: Her smile carried warmth and challenge, the kind that disarms even cynicism. Jack’s expression softened, but his voice remained steady.

Jack: “I believe in poetry the way I believe in first snow — beautiful, rare, and gone by morning.”

Jeeny: “Maybe love’s not the snow, Jack. Maybe it’s the ground that endures it.”

Host: The words hung between them — fragile, true, luminous. The rain outside had stopped completely. The city lights shimmered through the mist, refracted and dreamlike.

Jack: “You ever been in love?”

Jeeny: “Yes.”

Jack: “And did it pass the test?”

Jeeny: “It failed. But I didn’t.”

Jack: quietly “What do you mean?”

Jeeny: “I learned that love isn’t about what you get — it’s about what you give without keeping score. He left, but the love didn’t. It changed shape, but it stayed. That’s when I knew it was real.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his eyes tracing the slow flicker of the flame, the reflection of Jeeny’s face shimmering beside it. For a long moment, neither spoke.

Jack: “You know, I used to think love was a contract. Mutual benefits, emotional trade-offs. But now…” he sighs “…now I think maybe it’s a language. One most of us never learn to speak fluently.”

Jeeny: “Because we stop listening after the first sentence.”

Host: Outside, the first hint of dawn began to bloom behind the clouds — soft hues of rose and gold touching the horizon. The world, exhausted by rain, began to glisten again.

Jack: “So, the spark is just an invitation, huh? And everything after — the patience, the pain, the staying — that’s the real story.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The spark gets you to the door. The test is whether you walk through it and keep going when the light flickers.”

Host: Jack nodded slowly, as if the truth had finally settled somewhere deep, somewhere long avoided. He reached for his cup, took a slow sip, and smiled faintly.

Jack: “Then maybe love’s not about finding the right person. Maybe it’s about becoming the right person — for them, and for yourself.”

Jeeny: “That’s it, Jack. That’s the answer to the test.”

Host: The sunlight slipped gently through the curtains, scattering across their faces, melting the last remnants of shadow.

The radio fell silent. Only the sound of their breathing remained — quiet, steady, human.

Jack looked at her, the weary lines of skepticism softening into something almost tender.

Jack: “Maybe God did give us that first spark — just so we’d remember where the fire began.”

Jeeny: “And maybe true love… is keeping it burning, long after the divine match has gone out.”

Host: The camera lingered on them for a final moment — two figures bathed in the tender light of morning, their silhouettes framed against the new day.

Outside, the city stirred awake, oblivious to the quiet revelation unfolding above it.

And as the sun rose higher, the candle between them finally went out — not in defeat, but in completion.

Because the test was over.
And love — the quiet, tested kind — had endured.