There is no more lively sensation than that of pain; its

Host: The rain came down like a confession — relentless, rhythmic, raw. The alleyway outside the old Parisian café glistened with the sheen of cold water, a narrow river of light and shadow reflecting the amber glow of gas lamps. Inside, the room breathed softly, the air thick with the scent of tobacco and wine.

Two figures sat opposite each other in the corner — a man and a woman, framed by time and tension. Jack, with his usual stillness, looked like he had been carved from the dusk itself — sharp, angular, and tired. Jeeny, her dark hair damp, her eyes burning quietly beneath the candlelight, looked like the one part of the night that refused to sleep.

Between them lay a folded scrap of paper, a quote scrawled in deliberate strokes of ink:

“There is no more lively sensation than that of pain; its impressions are certain and dependable, they never deceive as may those of the pleasure women perpetually feign and almost never experience.”
— Marquis de Sade

The flame on their table flickered, and the quote’s words seemed to tremble with it.

Jeeny: (reading softly) “Pain as truth. Pleasure as deceit.” (looks up) “Do you ever feel like that’s what the world believes — that suffering is somehow more real than joy?”

Jack: (half-smiling) “That’s because it is. Pain doesn’t lie. When you’re in pain, you know it. There’s no illusion, no performance. Pleasure, though — that’s theater. Most people wear it like perfume — for others, not for themselves.”

Host: His voice was low, cold, edged with a fatigue that came not from work but from knowing too much. The rain pressed against the window, as if trying to listen in.

Jeeny: “So you’re siding with de Sade, then? The man who glorified pain because it made him feel alive?”

Jack: “I’m not glorifying it. I’m just saying he wasn’t wrong. Pain proves existence. It’s raw data. You can’t fake it. You can’t disguise it as easily as a smile.”

Jeeny: “That’s a cynical way to measure reality, Jack. By the hurt it gives you.”

Jack: “It’s the only measure that doesn’t lie. Pain demands attention. It strips away illusion. Pleasure… pleasure is soft. It disappears the second you stop holding it. Pain leaves marks.”

Host: A waiter passed by, the faint clatter of dishes echoing through the small room. The candle’s light shifted, slicing across Jeeny’s face — half in shadow, half in fire.

Jeeny: “Marks aren’t always truth. Some are scars from lies we believed too long. De Sade lived in a time when pleasure was forbidden, punished, owned by men. Of course he saw it as deceit — because he never understood the kind that wasn’t bought.”

Jack: (leans forward) “You think women’s pleasure is different? Truer?”

Jeeny: “No. I think it’s harder. Harder to find, harder to trust, harder to express. Society taught women to perform desire, not to feel it. But that doesn’t make pleasure less real — it makes it more tragic.”

Host: Her voice cracked slightly at the edge — not weakness, but the sharpness of conviction cutting through the smoke.

Jack: “And pain isn’t tragic?”

Jeeny: “Pain is easy. It’s everywhere. You don’t have to search for it. It hunts you. But pleasure — genuine pleasure — you have to build it, nurture it, protect it from everything that tries to turn it into shame. That’s harder. That’s braver.”

Host: Jack’s fingers tightened around his glass. The whiskey shimmered amber, trembling with the vibrations of his restrained anger.

Jack: “Braver? Pain takes bravery too. To survive it. To look it in the face without breaking.”

Jeeny: “Pain happens to you. Pleasure requires participation. That’s the difference. Pain is the world forcing itself upon you. Pleasure is you choosing to feel.”

Jack: (pauses, eyes narrowing) “So you’d rather live chasing something uncertain, something that might be a lie, than accept the one thing you can trust?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because even a lie told with hope is better than a truth built on despair.”

Host: Silence bloomed between them — thick, electric, alive. The rain grew harder, as if echoing the heartbeat beneath their words.

Jack: “You sound like a romantic trying to rewrite human nature. De Sade didn’t say pleasure was impossible. He said it was unreliable — especially the kind the world pretends women feel. He saw hypocrisy, not mystery.”

Jeeny: “He saw through cruelty, not into it. There’s a difference. Pain may be honest, but it’s not sacred. It doesn’t deserve worship.”

Jack: “But you can’t deny its power. Look around — whole religions, revolutions, and art forms are born from suffering. No one writes symphonies about comfort.”

Jeeny: “No one listens for joy because pain shouts louder. That doesn’t make it more true — just more theatrical.”

Host: The candle flame leaned toward her, as though drawn by her defiance. Jack’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing, the shadows on his face deepening like fissures.

Jack: “You ever been in real pain, Jeeny? The kind that tears everything down inside you? When nothing else exists but the ache? In that moment, you know — there’s no illusion left. That’s truth.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And I also know that living inside that truth too long kills you. Pain may be real, Jack, but it’s not enough. You can’t build a life out of proof. You build it out of tenderness — even if it’s fragile, even if it lies sometimes.”

Host: Her words landed gently, but they carried the weight of years — of heartbreak, of resilience, of the quiet wisdom that comes only from surviving one’s own ruins.

Jack: “Tenderness fades.”

Jeeny: “So does pain. The body forgets. The heart doesn’t.”

Jack: (softly, almost a whisper) “You think that’s why de Sade wanted pain — because it never left?”

Jeeny: “He wanted permanence. In a world that denied pleasure its depth, he mistook agony for authenticity.”

Host: The rain softened again, and through the fogged window, the lights of passing cars shimmered like ghosts of distant fires. The café seemed suspended in that dim eternity — two souls arguing not about pleasure and pain, but about what it meant to truly feel.

Jack: “Maybe he was right, though. Pleasure deceives. People smile while dying inside. Lovers pretend. Pain at least makes liars honest.”

Jeeny: “Maybe honesty isn’t the highest virtue. Maybe compassion is. You can be honest and still cruel. But pleasure — real, raw, human pleasure — that’s compassion with yourself. It says, ‘I deserve to feel joy, even when the world tells me I don’t.’”

Host: A quiet moment passed — Jack looked down at his hands, as if realizing they were trembling slightly. The candlelight trembled too, the flame swaying but never dying.

Jack: “So what you’re saying is — pleasure isn’t a lie. It’s just misunderstood.”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying pain isn’t the only truth worth believing in.”

Host: Their eyes met, and for a brief second, the world outside — the rain, the hum, the passing of time — dissolved. Two reflections burned in the same glass, both wounded, both searching for something that hurt less than honesty.

Jack: (after a long pause) “You make me sound naive for trusting pain.”

Jeeny: “No. Just human. Pain teaches, but pleasure heals. The first shows you what’s broken; the second reminds you you’re still alive.”

Host: The rain stopped. The sky cleared enough for a thin sliver of moonlight to pierce through the fogged glass, landing between them like a narrow bridge of silver.

Jack: “You ever think maybe pain and pleasure are the same thing — just truth with different temperatures?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But one burns, and the other breathes.”

Host: The last of the candle burned low, its wax pooling like melted time. They sat in silence — two souls suspended between wound and wonder.

And when the light finally died, only the soft glow of the moon remained, casting them both in shades of gray — two silhouettes united, not by what they felt, but by the fragile miracle of still wanting to.

Because perhaps de Sade was half right: pain never lies — but it is love, and not pain, that dares to forgive the truth.