There is the melancholy of Europe. There is the romantic malaise.

Host:
The night was thick with fog, the kind that softens the edges of buildings and muffles the world into a kind of beautiful despair. A single streetlamp glowed through the mist, its light trembling like a memory unsure of its place. The cobblestones of the old European street were wet, reflecting the silver hue of the moon that lingered above, pale and patient.

In a small café, almost empty but for the sound of jazz spinning lazily on an old record player, Jack and Jeeny sat opposite one another. Jack’s coat hung from his chair, its edges still damp from the rain. Jeeny’s hands were wrapped around a cup of tea, her eyes tracing the window, watching the fog dance like an old ghost over the river.

The air carried the smell of tobacco, espresso, and something else—something like loneliness.

Jeeny:
Mathieu Amalric once said, “There is the melancholy of Europe. There is the romantic malaise. Feeling sad is almost a form of deepness.”

Jack:
(half-smiling)
Ah, yes. The melancholy of Europe. I’ve seen it—poets sipping wine, writing about suffering as if it were a currency. People call it deepness, but sometimes it’s just… decay dressed in poetry.

Host:
He lifted his cup, sipped, and set it down with a dull clink. The steam from his coffee rose, then faded, as if even heat had grown tired of trying.

Jeeny:
Maybe. But isn’t there something beautiful in the way Europe has always embraced sadness? The art, the music, the cathedrals—they’re all built from a kind of ache. Melancholy isn’t just pain, Jack. It’s a form of awareness.

Jack:
(leans back, eyes narrow)
Awareness, sure. But it’s also indulgence. People mistake melancholy for wisdom. They think if they’re sad, they must be deep. But being sad doesn’t make you a philosopher; it just makes you human.

Jeeny:
(smiles faintly)
And being human is the deepest thing of all, isn’t it?

Host:
The record hissed softly as the needle drifted over a scratch. Outside, a car passed through a puddle, sending up a spray that glimmered briefly before falling back into silence.

Jack:
No, Jeeny. I think it’s an excuse. People use sadness as a mask for meaning. They sit in cafés like this, staring into their wine glasses, pretending their emptiness is art.

Jeeny:
(gently)
Or maybe they’re just honest about what the rest of us are trying to hide. Maybe melancholy isn’t about pretending—it’s about facing the fact that beauty fades, love fails, and time never stops.

Jack:
That’s bleak.

Jeeny:
No, that’s real. And sometimes reality, when felt deeply, turns into art.

Host:
Her voice carried softly across the table, like a prayer spoken not to be heard, but to exist. Jack’s eyes flickered, catching the candlelight. The shadows on his face made him look both older and younger, both man and memory.

Jack:
You talk about sadness like it’s a kind of cathedral.

Jeeny:
It is. Built from moments of loss and longing. Every stone of it carved by feeling.

Jack:
And yet it’s still just a building full of echoes.

Jeeny:
But those echoes remind us that someone once sang there.

Host:
For a moment, the music in the background seemed to pause, as if the world had leaned in to listen.

Jack:
(softly)
You think feeling sad makes us deep?

Jeeny:
No. I think understanding sadness makes us deep. The difference is in whether you drown or dive.

Jack:
(pauses, considering)
That’s poetic. Maybe too poetic.

Jeeny:
So what? Maybe poetry is how we survive the void.

Host:
A faint smile crept across her lips, the kind that hides grief behind grace. Jack watched her, and something in his gaze softened—like a man remembering the weight of something he once buried.

Jack:
You know what I think? Melancholy is a luxury. The poor, the tired, the hungry—they don’t have time to be melancholic. Only those with comfort can afford to call their sadness profound.

Jeeny:
(frowning)
That’s unfair. Even the poor feel the ache of existence. Maybe they just don’t have the language for it. But they feel it all the same—the nights, the losses, the questions that never end.

Jack:
So, you’re saying everyone’s a philosopher when they’re alone at night?

Jeeny:
(quietly)
Yes. Even if they don’t know it.

Host:
The wind outside howled softly, carrying the scent of rain and iron. A church bell rang in the distance, its tone hollow but pure, like a call from another century.

Jack:
You know what I miss about Europe? The way sadness isn’t something to be fixed. It’s something to be felt.

Jeeny:
(nods slowly)
Exactly. We’ve turned happiness into a requirement, a kind of moral duty. But in Europe, they let sadness breathe. They see melancholy not as failure, but as depth.

Jack:
(thoughtfully)
So, feeling sad is almost a form of deepness…

Jeeny:
Almost. Because deepness isn’t about how much you hurt—it’s about how much you understand your hurt.

Host:
The rain began again, faint, rhythmic, like fingers tapping on the window. Jack watched it for a long moment, the reflections shifting in his eyes like ghosts of old thoughts.

Jack:
Maybe that’s why we’re drawn to sad songs, sad films, sad people. We see our own depths reflected back.

Jeeny:
Yes. Sadness connects us. Happiness isolates; it ends in itself. But melancholy opens a door—to others, to memory, to truth.

Jack:
You make it sound holy.

Jeeny:
Maybe it is. Maybe melancholy is our most honest prayer.

Host:
Her words fell like ashes, light and haunting. The candle between them flickered, its flame trembling against the draft that crept under the door.

Jack:
(after a pause)
You know, maybe I was wrong. Maybe sadness isn’t indulgence. Maybe it’s a kind of mirror. You just have to decide whether to look or turn away.

Jeeny:
(softly)
Exactly. That’s the real deepness Amalric was talking about—the courage to look.

Host:
They sat in silence then, two silhouettes framed by the mist and the glow of a single light. Outside, the fog began to lift, revealing the curve of the river, the arches of old bridges, the quiet poetry of a city that had known centuries of sorrow and song.

Jeeny:
(smiling faintly)
Maybe this is what deepness feels like—not pain, not peace, but something in between.

Jack:
(nods)
A soft ache that reminds you you’re alive.

Host:
The record ended with a gentle click. The candle burned low, its flame a tiny heart of light in the dark. And for a moment, melancholy didn’t feel like sadness at all—
but like understanding.

And in that quiet understanding,
the night, the fog, and their hearts
finally breathed together.