We champion freedom - but Brexit will mean the next generation is

Host: The evening was grey, the kind of grey that swallowed the sky, the sea, and every hopeful reflection between them. The harbor stretched below, ships moored in silence, their flags heavy with mist. The wind carried the faint smell of salt and departure, and the distant toll of a bell echoed like a forgotten promise.

Host: In a small café overlooking the water, two figures sat by the window. Jack, his coat unbuttoned and his eyes fixed on the horizon, stirred his coffee without drinking it. Across from him, Jeeny watched him quietly, her hands wrapped around a mug, her face lit by the dying light of day.

Host: The radio murmured faintly behind the counter—news anchors speaking in tired, practiced tones about borders, policies, and promises—while outside, the tide began to turn.

Jeeny: “Jo Swinson once said, ‘We champion freedom—but Brexit will mean the next generation is less free to live, work and love across Europe.’”

Host: Her voice lingered in the air, as though the words themselves were still trying to find a home that had quietly moved away.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it, Jack? How we can fight for something we call freedom, and yet end up making the world smaller for those who come after us.”

Jack: (without looking up) “Freedom’s not about size, Jeeny. It’s about choice. And sometimes, choosing to stand alone is its own kind of freedom.”

Jeeny: “Standing alone isn’t always brave. Sometimes it’s just lonely.”

Host: A gust of wind pressed against the window, rattling the glass. The light from the setting sun fractured across the table, splitting into dull amber shards.

Jack: “We spent decades in someone else’s orbit. We gave up control, identity, direction—all for convenience. Brexit was about taking that back.”

Jeeny: “But at what cost? Freedom isn’t just about control, Jack. It’s about connection. It’s the ability to cross borders, to share ideas, to fall in love with someone you never would have met if a line on a map hadn’t told you otherwise.”

Jack: “That’s idealism. The world doesn’t run on romance—it runs on sovereignty. Nations can’t live on love stories and open skies.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe nations have forgotten what it means to be human. We keep building walls and calling them boundaries, but all they do is separate the same hearts beating on both sides.”

Host: Her eyes glistened in the dim light, and for a moment, Jack’s stirring hand stilled. The spoon clinked softly against the cup, a small, defeated sound.

Jack: “You sound like those who think we’ve betrayed some utopia. But Europe wasn’t heaven, Jeeny. It was bureaucracy dressed as unity.”

Jeeny: “And Britain wasn’t hell. It was home—for everyone who believed that we could belong to more than one place.”

Host: The silence between them deepened. Outside, a seagull screeched and then disappeared into the fog. The sound of the sea rose, relentless and cold.

Jeeny: “Do you remember when we went to Paris that summer? You said it was the first time you felt unanchored—like you could be anyone, belong anywhere.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Yeah. I remember the wine being cheap and the air too hot.”

Jeeny: “You also said you felt free. You could walk into a bar, meet a stranger, speak in broken French, and the world didn’t care who you were. You belonged just by being there.”

Jack: “That kind of freedom’s fleeting, Jeeny. It’s a postcard version of reality. Eventually, you come home. You pay bills. You vote. You realize ‘belonging everywhere’ usually means belonging nowhere.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But at least for a while, we tried. We believed the world could be a bridge, not a moat.”

Host: The rain began to fall, soft at first, then harder, tapping against the windowpane like impatient fingers. The reflections of their faces blurred together—one image fading into the other, indistinguishable, like two halves of the same thought.

Jack: “The young always think they can redesign the map. But they don’t understand the weight of history. Freedom without responsibility is chaos.”

Jeeny: “And responsibility without imagination is prison. We built a continent on cooperation and called it naïve when it began to work. Now we’re tearing it apart for nostalgia.”

Host: Her voice cracked slightly on the last word. The lamplight caught her face, revealing not anger, but sorrow—the kind of sorrow that comes when you realize a door has closed quietly, permanently.

Jack: (softly) “You think leaving made us smaller. But maybe it just made us ourselves.”

Jeeny: “Then why does it feel like we’ve all become strangers in the same country?”

Host: The rain thickened, blurring the world beyond the window. The lights from the harbor turned into smudged halos, shimmering but unreachable.

Jeeny: “We keep talking about freedom, but all I see are walls—in our politics, in our conversations, even in this room.”

Jack: “Maybe freedom’s not about removing walls, Jeeny. Maybe it’s about deciding which ones are worth keeping.”

Jeeny: “And which ones keep us from each other.”

Host: The wind pushed harder against the glass, and the lamp flame flickered. For a moment, both of them looked up—silent, breathing in unison.

Jeeny: (quietly) “We used to move through the world like it was one country. Now even our dreams need visas.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s the price of independence.”

Jeeny: “Or the cost of isolation.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked once, twice—then stopped. The sound of the rain filled the void it left.

Jack: “You know what the irony is? Everyone talks about leaving or staying like it’s about politics. But for me, it always felt like heartbreak.”

Jeeny: “It was heartbreak, Jack. Just not between nations—between people.”

Host: She reached across the table, her fingers brushing his. The touch was hesitant, like the first crossing of a border that no one had agreed upon.

Jeeny: “We could have built something that belonged to everyone. But instead, we built excuses.”

Jack: “Maybe one day, the next generation will find a way back.”

Jeeny: “If we leave them something to come back to.”

Host: The storm outside began to fade, the rain softening to a whisper. The harbor lights steadied. Beyond the fog, the faintest line of blue appeared on the horizon—the first hint of morning.

Host: They sat in silence, two silhouettes against the slow return of light. Neither triumphant nor broken—just changed.

Host: And as the dawn rose over a world newly divided, it revealed a quiet, painful truth:
Host: Freedom, without love, was only another kind of border.