Though beauty gives you a weird sense of entitlement, it's rather

Host: The night was tender but tired. Rain fell in a steady whisper against the windows of a small apartment overlooking the city. Inside, the air smelled faintly of paint thinner, tea, and memory. A half-finished portrait leaned against the wall — a woman’s face in the making, eyes half-formed, as though the artist wasn’t sure yet if she wanted to be seen.

Jack sat cross-legged on the floor, his shirt sleeves rolled up, a brush still clutched between stained fingers. Across from him, Jeeny sat with her knees drawn close, holding a steaming mug between her palms.

Host: The lamplight pooled gently on the wooden floor, soft and uneven, like liquid gold spilled carelessly. The city’s hum filtered faintly through the walls, but in here, time moved slower — as if the world had paused to eavesdrop.

Jeeny: “You’ve been staring at that canvas for an hour, Jack.”

Jack: (without looking up) “Yeah. I keep painting her face, then erasing it. Every time it looks right, it feels wrong.”

Jeeny: “You can’t paint what you don’t believe in.”

Jack: “That’s the problem. I don’t know if I believe in beauty anymore.”

Host: He leaned back, exhaling smoke from a cigarette he’d forgotten to finish, his eyes shadowed, tired, but still hungry — the kind of hunger that only exists in those who’ve seen too much of the world’s surface.

Jack: “Candice Bergen once said, ‘Beauty gives you a weird sense of entitlement. It’s frightening — like renting something that everyone else treats as permanent.’ That stuck with me.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s true?”

Jack: “Because it’s cruel.”

Host: His voice cracked slightly — not from weakness, but from honesty. The kind that slips out before you can hide it.

Jack: “I used to date a model. She was stunning — the kind of woman who walked into a room and every conversation died. But the thing that killed her most wasn’t the attention; it was the expiration date stamped on it. She’d look in the mirror like she was checking the clock.”

Jeeny: “That’s the curse of beauty — to be adored for what you’ll lose.”

Jack: “Exactly. And when it fades, people act like you stole something from them.”

Host: The rain thickened outside, sliding down the glass in crooked veins. Jeeny sipped her tea, the steam rising like a ghost between them.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why Bergen called it ‘renting.’ You don’t own it. You’re just borrowing it from youth, from luck, from good lighting. But while you have it, the world treats you like a queen.”

Jack: “A queen in a glass palace.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: Jack set the brush down, his hands trembling slightly. The half-finished face on the canvas seemed to look back at him, accusingly — as if demanding a reason for her own creation.

Jack: “But that’s the thing, isn’t it? We worship beauty like it’s a virtue. As if symmetry means moral worth.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s easier than seeing the person inside. Beauty is digestible — it doesn’t challenge you.”

Jack: “And when someone loses it, they disappear. Society doesn’t know how to love a faded photograph.”

Host: His words hung heavy. The room seemed smaller suddenly, the lamplight dimmer. Jeeny shifted slightly, setting down her cup.

Jeeny: “Do you think you’ve ever been loved for who you are, not what you offer?”

Jack: (laughs bitterly) “I think I’ve been tolerated for who I am. That’s close enough.”

Jeeny: “That’s not close at all.”

Host: The silence after her words felt electric — as if the truth itself had entered the room and refused to leave.

Jeeny: “You know what’s terrifying about beauty, Jack? It’s not just that it fades. It’s that people think it defines their worth. You get used to being adored for your face, your body — and then one day, no one looks. That silence is louder than applause.”

Jack: “That’s why I don’t trust it. Beauty turns people into mirrors. You stop seeing yourself — you only see their reflection of you.”

Host: The rain softened, easing into rhythm with the quiet tick of a clock somewhere unseen.

Jeeny: “And yet, you still paint faces.”

Jack: “Maybe because I’m trying to find the soul inside them. Maybe I’m trying to prove Bergen wrong — that beauty isn’t just rented. That it can be earned.”

Jeeny: “You can’t prove her wrong, Jack. She wasn’t saying beauty isn’t real — she was saying it’s temporary. The trick is not to mourn it, but to see what it reveals before it leaves.”

Host: Jack stared at her, his eyes sharp, searching.

Jack: “So you think beauty has a purpose?”

Jeeny: “Yes. It teaches us impermanence. It reminds us to look deeper. It’s like autumn — gorgeous precisely because it doesn’t last.”

Jack: “That’s poetic.”

Jeeny: “It’s human.”

Host: She rose and walked toward the window, her silhouette outlined by the city’s silver glow. The reflection of the half-painted woman shimmered beside hers — two ghosts in parallel, one made of pigment, one of flesh.

Jeeny: “You know what’s strange? When someone beautiful admits they’re scared of losing it, people call it vanity. But it’s not vanity. It’s grief.”

Jack: “Grief for themselves.”

Jeeny: “Grief for how the world will treat them once the illusion’s gone.”

Host: Jack’s hands flexed — the brush still slick with color.

Jack: “Maybe that’s why I can’t finish this painting. Because I don’t want to trap her. To paint beauty is to cage it — to pretend it can’t rot, wrinkle, fade.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you should paint her after she fades.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You mean paint truth instead of perfection?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because the truth never expires.”

Host: She turned back to him, the light catching her eyes — brown, deep, alive. For a moment, he saw it: what Bergen meant by “inner terror.” The knowledge that time owns us all, that even grace has a lease.

Jack: “You think we can ever stop the world from worshipping the surface?”

Jeeny: “No. But we can stop worshipping it ourselves.”

Host: The lamp flickered once more. Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving the streets slick and shining like a mirror laid flat against the world.

Jack: “You know, Bergen was right — beauty gives you entitlement. But it also gives you fear. You start believing you have something to lose.”

Jeeny: “And the moment you stop fearing the loss, you become truly beautiful.”

Host: A hush settled. Jack reached for the brush again, dipped it gently into the paint. His strokes were slower now, deliberate — not to capture her perfection, but her impermanence.

Jeeny watched silently, her face calm, her eyes soft. The canvas began to shift — the lines of youth giving way to something truer, older, more human.

Jack: “You think people will see beauty in this?”

Jeeny: “If they don’t, they’ll feel it. That’s enough.”

Host: The city lights dimmed into the rhythm of early morning. The portrait stood complete at last — imperfect, alive, vulnerable.

Jack: “You were right.”

Jeeny: “About what?”

Jack: “About beauty not being permanent — but meaning being eternal.”

Host: She smiled. The lamplight caught her smile like a secret only the universe could hear.

Jeeny: “Then you finally painted truth.”

Host: And as dawn broke, pale and forgiving, the canvas, the artist, and the muse all seemed to breathe the same quiet relief — that beauty, no matter how fleeting, always leaves behind its shadow of grace.

Host: In the end, perhaps that’s what Bergen meant — that the terror of beauty isn’t in losing it, but in realizing it was never ours to keep.