Well, to be frank I like natural beauty. Not artificial.

Host: The mountains stood silent under a pale gold dawn, their peaks dusted with snow, their slopes carved by centuries of patience. The river below shimmered like a restless mirror, its current whispering to the stones as if carrying messages from another world.

A lone cabin sat nestled between pines and morning mist. Smoke drifted lazily from its chimney. Inside, the fireplace glowed with slow-burning embers.

Jack leaned against the wooden doorframe, mug of coffee in hand, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his eyes on the horizon. Across the small room, Jeeny sat on the edge of the window seat, camera resting in her lap, her fingers tracing lazy circles on the lens.

Pinned to the wall between them was a photograph — raw, unedited, almost wild. A stretch of forest after rain. Beneath it, scribbled in pen, a quote:

“Well, to be frank I like natural beauty. Not artificial.”
— Abhinav Shukla

Jeeny turned toward Jack, her voice soft but sharp in meaning.

Jeeny: “He says it so simply. Natural beauty. Not artificial. But people hear that and think it’s about looks.”

Jack: “It’s about truth.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The light through the window caught the rising steam from their mugs, turning it gold. Dust motes danced in it — small, weightless reminders of time’s constant movement.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how obsessed we’ve become with polishing everything? Our faces, our words, even our emotions. Nothing’s raw anymore — it’s all curated.”

Jack: “Curated humanity. We’re all filters now.”

Jeeny: “Even our love is edited.”

Jack: “Love’s the first thing we fake, and the last thing we realize we’ve lost.”

Host: Jeeny lifted her camera, pointing it toward the window where the early sun painted the mist in silver.

Jeeny: “I take pictures because they remind me that beauty doesn’t need permission. It doesn’t pose. It just exists.”

Jack: “And it doesn’t apologize for its flaws.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what people don’t understand — flaws aren’t the opposite of beauty. They’re the proof of it.”

Jack: “But we live in a world that teaches us to hide the proof.”

Jeeny: “To repaint the scars.”

Jack: “To pretend perfection’s real.”

Host: The fire crackled softly, sending a stray spark into the air. Jack sat down opposite her, their faces framed by the amber flicker of the flames.

Jack: “You know, I used to chase artificial beauty — the kind you can buy, the kind that looks good under lights. It was easy. Controlled. Predictable.”

Jeeny: “And?”

Jack: “It got boring.”

Jeeny: “Because perfection doesn’t surprise you.”

Jack: “Because it doesn’t breathe.”

Host: Jeeny smiled — not the practiced kind, but the kind that begins small and grows quietly, like dawn through a fog.

Jeeny: “Abhinav was right. There’s something spiritual about things untouched — nature, emotion, honesty. Even silence.”

Jack: “Especially silence. It’s the only thing we haven’t learned how to fake yet.”

Jeeny: “Give us time.”

Jack: (smirking) “You might be right.”

Host: Outside, a birdsong broke through the quiet, cutting through the distance with effortless clarity. It was the kind of sound that asked for nothing, that simply was.

Jeeny: “I think that’s why people are drawn to wilderness. It’s indifferent. It doesn’t perform.”

Jack: “And in that indifference, it feels honest.”

Jeeny: “Honesty’s the last luxury.”

Jack: “And the first casualty.”

Host: She turned her camera toward him then, lens glinting like an unblinking eye.

Jeeny: “Don’t move.”

Jack: “Why?”

Jeeny: “Because you’re not pretending right now. That’s rare.”

Host: The shutter clicked, soft but definite. The sound cut the air like punctuation at the end of a thought.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I thought beauty was something you had to earn. Build muscles, buy suits, get noticed.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think beauty’s what remains when you stop trying to look impressive.”

Jeeny: “That’s maturity. Or exhaustion. They feel the same sometimes.”

Jack: “Both lead to honesty.”

Jeeny: “And honesty leads to peace.”

Host: She set the camera down and looked at him — really looked, the way artists look at light, not form.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how natural beauty has nothing to do with symmetry? Mountains aren’t even. Trees bend. Faces carry stories. And yet, everything’s perfect.”

Jack: “Because it’s real.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s alive.”

Jack: “Because it doesn’t ask to be liked.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the secret to real beauty — indifference. It just is.”

Host: The wind outside rattled the old window frame gently, a reminder that the world doesn’t stop to be admired. It moves, changes, sheds, regrows.

Jack: “You think people could ever go back to that — to natural living, natural feeling?”

Jeeny: “Not completely. We’re too self-aware now. But maybe we can unlearn a little.”

Jack: “Unlearn what?”

Jeeny: “The habit of pretending.”

Host: He leaned back, the wooden chair creaking beneath him.

Jack: “Pretending we’re better than nature?”

Jeeny: “Pretending we’re not part of it.”

Jack: “That’s the tragedy, isn’t it? We built cities to escape the wild, and now we build parks to remember it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We crave what we’ve forgotten how to live with.”

Host: A long, soft pause followed. The fire burned low, the light dimming into a gentle hum.

Jeeny: “You know, I think natural beauty isn’t just about the world out there. It’s about us too — how we speak, how we forgive, how we show up.”

Jack: “Without makeup for the soul.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Jack: “Then maybe artificial beauty isn’t bad — it’s just scared.”

Jeeny: “Scared?”

Jack: “Yeah. It’s what we build when we’re afraid our real selves won’t be loved.”

Jeeny: “That’s… true. Painfully true.”

Jack: “And the moment we stop fearing that — that’s when we become beautiful again.”

Host: The sun was higher now, light spilling into the cabin, illuminating the imperfections on the walls — the cracks, the rough wood, the faded paint. But somehow, it all looked complete.

Jeeny picked up her camera again and snapped a photo of the morning light hitting the flaws.

Jeeny: “You see that?”

Jack: “Yeah.”

Jeeny: “That’s beauty. The kind that doesn’t need fixing.”

Jack: “And doesn’t ask for attention.”

Jeeny: “It just exists — like truth.”

Host: The two of them sat in the warm stillness, surrounded by the scent of pine and coffee and quiet understanding. Outside, the river whispered on, carrying the reflections of clouds across its surface.

And as the moment stretched into something timeless, Abhinav Shukla’s words echoed softly through the cabin — no longer a preference, but a philosophy:

that natural beauty
is not in perfection,
but in presence;
that the real outlasts the refined;
that honesty ages better than glamour;
and that in a world obsessed with artifice,
the most radical act of all
is still the simplest —

to be genuine,
unfiltered,
and alive.