We'll sort of get over the marriage first and then maybe look at

Host: The night was soft, moonlit, and alive with the hushed sound of the city’s breath. The café terrace sat at the edge of an old cobblestone street, where lamp posts threw golden halos on the pavement slick with evening mist. Jack leaned back in his chair, a half-empty glass of bourbon catching the light. Jeeny, across from him, held a cup of tea, her fingers trembling slightly as the steam curled upward between them.

Host: The air carried an unspoken tension, a quiet gravity of two souls circling a truth they both feared to name.

Jeeny: “You know,” she began, her voice gentle, “I read something today. Prince William once said, ‘We’ll sort of get over the marriage first and then maybe look at the kids. But obviously we want a family so we’ll have to start thinking about that.’”
She smiled faintly. “There’s something... honest in that. A kind of grounded hope.”

Jack: (smirking) “Grounded, yes. Romantic? Not exactly. That’s the modern creed, isn’t it? Plan, schedule, execute — even love has to fit into a timeline.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes narrowed, the streetlight catching their warm fire. Jack’s tone, low and dry, brushed against her heart like a cold wind.

Jeeny: “You think it’s wrong to plan a life together? To take time to build something steady before bringing children into it?”

Jack: “No. I think it’s pretending that we can plan what’s meant to be chaotic. Marriage, kids — they’re not projects to manage. They’re storms you step into, praying the roof holds.”

Host: A car passed, its headlights sweeping across their faces like a silent wave. Jack’s eyes, grey and distant, seemed to reflect that passing light — something haunted behind the cynicism.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the beauty of it, Jack? That we can build some kind of order from the storm? Even the royal family, with all their constraints, still dreams of normalcy — love, family, belonging.”

Jack: “Royalty dreams of normalcy because it’s the one thing they can’t buy. But don’t confuse dreaming with doing.” He leaned forward, his voice low, intense. “The moment you start thinking you can plan life into perfection, you kill what makes it real.”

Jeeny: “And what’s that?”

Jack: “The unexpected. The madness. The accidents that turn into miracles.”

Host: The café door creaked open, letting a gust of wind brush between them. The candles flickered, and for a moment, shadows danced across their faces — like thoughts refusing to settle.

Jeeny: “So you’d rather let life toss you wherever it wants? You’d let chance dictate the deepest things — love, family, meaning?”

Jack: “I’d let reality dictate them. Life doesn’t care for your calendars. You can set the table all you want, Jeeny, but the storm will still blow through.”

Host: Jeeny looked down, her tea untouched, her reflection trembling in the surface. The silence between them grew thick, filled with the echo of unspoken things.

Jeeny: “Do you know what’s strange, Jack? When people say they’ll ‘get over the marriage first’ — they don’t mean indifference. They mean growth. Adjustment. Two people learning to breathe as one before bringing more life into the world. Isn’t that… wise?”

Jack: “It’s cautious. Maybe too cautious. You can’t learn to swim by sitting on the dock discussing technique.”

Jeeny: “But you can drown if you jump without knowing how deep it is.”

Host: The words hung, heavy, electric. Outside, the rain began, slow at first, like a heartbeat finding its rhythm. Drops pattered on the glass, blurring the streetlights into soft halos.

Jack: “You think preparation saves people? Look around. Divorces are higher now than ever — and people are more prepared than ever. Therapy, counseling, financial planning — everything. Still, they fall apart.”

Jeeny: “Because they plan everything except themselves.”

Host: Jack froze, his hand tightening around the glass. A muscle twitched in his jaw, the bourbon trembling slightly in his grip.

Jack: “That’s a nice line, Jeeny. But it’s naïve. People don’t change just because they ‘prepare.’ They are what they are — messy, flawed, restless.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But acknowledging that is the first step to love, isn’t it? Not denying the chaos, but choosing to face it together.”

Jack: “And how long before one gets tired of facing it? Before one starts dreaming of calm instead of love?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe love isn’t about calm. Maybe it’s about courage.”

Host: Thunder murmured distantly, as if the sky itself leaned closer to listen. The flames of the candles wavered, throwing shadows that shifted like memories across the brick wall.

Jack: “You talk about courage like it’s easy. But courage doesn’t pay the bills. It doesn’t stop people from growing apart.”

Jeeny: “No, but fear doesn’t bring them closer either.”

Jack: “So what’s your solution? Hope?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Hope — with effort. Love — with work. Families — with patience. The quote wasn’t about postponing life; it was about respecting its weight. Even a prince needs time to learn how to love right.”

Host: A pause stretched between them, fragile and tender. The rain deepened, a steady percussion that matched the beat of their hearts.

Jack: “You sound like someone who believes love redeems everything.”

Jeeny: “Not everything. But enough.”

Host: Jack exhaled, the defensiveness in his voice fading. His eyes softened, tracing the steam rising from her cup. It twined with the smoke from his glass, a momentary dance of light and air.

Jack: “You ever think maybe people like us talk too much about love and not enough about living it?”

Jeeny: “All the time. But words are how we remember what we’re living for.”

Host: Jack leaned back, gaze distant, mind somewhere else — perhaps in a memory of someone he once loved and lost to his own logic. The rain’s rhythm seemed to echo that thought — steady, unforgiving, true.

Jack: “You know what I envy about that quote, Jeeny? The normalcy. The idea that someone — even a prince — can still think of love as a thing to work through. To get over the marriage first... It’s brutally honest. There’s no illusion there.”

Jeeny: “Honesty is love’s first language. Pretending to be perfect kills it faster than distance ever could.”

Host: The wind howled, shaking the café windows. A waiter passed, lighting another candle, and for a brief second, the flame flared — a tiny rebellion against the storm outside.

Jack: “You think we could ever love like that? With patience instead of passion?”

Jeeny: “Patience is passion, Jack. Just slower. Deeper. The kind that doesn’t burn out.”

Host: Jack’s lips twitched, not quite a smile, not quite surrender. The light flickered over his face, carving the tired lines softer.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s not about avoiding the storm or chasing calm — but learning to dance in the rain.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Exactly. That’s what he meant — Prince William. Not delay. Not denial. Just... rhythm. Let love breathe before you make it multiply.”

Host: The rain eased, the air clearing, leaving behind a silver shimmer on the cobblestones. The city lights blurred into a dreamy glow as the night folded around them.

Host: Jack reached for his glass, but this time only to set it aside. Jeeny smiled, her eyes soft, the kind of smile that said forgiveness more than words ever could.

Jack: “You make it sound so damn beautiful.”

Jeeny: “Because it is. Even when it hurts.”

Host: The camera of the night pulled back — two figures beneath a streetlight, rain misting their hair, their voices fading into the soft hum of the city. Somewhere in that tender silence, they found a truth both simple and infinite:

Host: That love, like rain, cannot be planned, only endured — and cherished for every drop that dares to fall.