You get tough when you grow up unloved. People described me as a

Host: The rain had just stopped, leaving the city washed in a muted glow. Streetlights shimmered through thin fog, and the air carried the scent of wet asphalt and forgotten tears. Inside a small café on the corner, the windows were fogged, and the murmur of soft jazz played from an old speaker. Jack sat by the window, his grey eyes reflecting the passing cars, his hands wrapped around a half-empty cup of coffee. Jeeny sat across from him, her hair slightly damp, a strand sticking to her cheek. She looked quiet, but her eyes were alive with thoughts that had been waiting to speak.

The quote hung between them like a ghost of memory:
“You get tough when you grow up unloved… I could be myself.”

Jack: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How pain becomes a kind of armor. You learn to hide your fear, your shame, your need — until one day, it’s all you know how to do.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe you don’t hide, Jack. Maybe you just survive. When no one loves you, you invent a version of yourself that can stand the silence. It’s not an armor, it’s a mask — and masks can be beautiful too, sometimes.”

Host: The steam from the coffee curled into the air, catching a shaft of light that cut through the window. Jack’s jaw tightened, his voice dropped into that low husky tone, the one that carried both anger and truth.

Jack: “No. Masks are lies, Jeeny. That’s what she said in that quote — she lied because it was the only way to avoid punishment. I get that. But lies rot you from the inside. You start to forget what’s real. And when you finally try to be yourself, there’s nothing left to find.”

Jeeny: “You think being real is simple? That people can just strip off their defenses and walk into the world bare? Most people would bleed before they even speak.”

Jack: “Maybe they should. Truth hurts, but it cleanses. Lies just delay the inevitable.”

Host: A bus rumbled past the café, shaking the windowpanes. Jeeny looked out, her reflection merging with the blur of city lights.

Jeeny: “When you’ve been unloved, you don’t just learn to lie, Jack — you learn to pretend. To smile, to speak the way people want, to become what the world rewards. That’s not about rot, it’s about survival. It’s what every child does when they’re alone.”

Jack: “And what happens when that child grows up? When they can’t tell the difference between pretending and being? You call it survival, but I call it damage.”

Jeeny: “It’s both.”

Host: The silence between them thickened, heavy as fog. A waitress passed by, placing a fresh napkin beside Jeeny’s cup, but neither looked up.

Jeeny: “Do you know what Maj Sjowall said after that line? ‘I could be myself.’ That’s not just relief, Jack — that’s rebirth. When someone finally stops lying, it’s because they’ve found a space safe enough to be truthful. That’s what love does — it gives permission to be real.”

Jack: “And if there’s no one to give that permission?”

Jeeny: “Then you learn to give it to yourself.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice softened, but there was steel in it — the kind that comes from years of holding brokenness with grace.

Jack: “You sound like you believe healing is a choice.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t it? Look at the orphans who turn into poets, the abused who become advocates, the forgotten who forgive. That’s not accident, Jack. That’s resilience.”

Jack: “Or it’s just necessity dressed up as hope. People adapt because they must, not because they want to. The brain builds walls, the heart goes numb. You call it strength, I call it damage control.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound so cold. As if pain has no meaning, no alchemy. But think about Frida Kahlo — her whole life was pain, and yet she painted it into color. She turned her wounds into art, her suffering into freedom. Don’t tell me damage can’t bloom into something beautiful.”

Host: The rain began again, gentle, almost apologetic, drumming softly on the glass. Jack’s eyes flickered, as if a memory had just brushed against him.

Jack: “You think beauty justifies it? That suffering is some kind of currency for growth? That’s a romantic lie, Jeeny. The truth is, most people don’t turn their pain into art. They just carry it — quietly, endlessly.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But carrying it is still living, Jack. It’s still defiance. Every day you wake up and keep breathing when the world didn’t love you — that’s courage.”

Host: The music changed — a slow piano, the kind that fills empty spaces with ache.

Jack: “You talk about courage, but I see fear. Fear of being alone, fear of being forgotten. You build these stories about healing because the truth — the real one — is unbearable.”

Jeeny: “And you hide behind logic, because feeling anything at all would tear you apart.”

Host: The words hit him like a slap — quiet, but sharp. Jack’s hand trembled as he lifted his cup, then set it down again. The steam was gone.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right.”

Jeeny: “You know I am.”

Host: For a moment, the room was filled only with the sound of rain. Then Jack spoke, slower now, the edge in his voice replaced by something else — weariness, maybe, or truth.

Jack: “When I was a kid, I used to lie too. To my father. Said I’d done my homework, said I wasn’t hurt. He had this look — like the world had already given up on me, so I started to believe it. Guess that’s how you ‘get tough,’ huh?”

Jeeny: “You didn’t get tough, Jack. You got strong. There’s a difference. Toughness is just resistance, but strength is understanding your own fragility and still showing up.”

Jack: “And yet… it still feels like I’m pretending most of the time.”

Jeeny: “We all are. That’s the secret. Even those who were loved. The difference is, some of us are just more honest about our masks.”

Host: The rain slowed again, like a heartbeat easing after a storm. The light from a passing car flashed across their faces, and for a moment, the lines of pain, memory, and tenderness blurred.

Jack: “You know, Maj Sjowall wasn’t talking about redemption. She was talking about freedom — that feeling of finally not needing to lie. I wonder if that ever really happens.”

Jeeny: “It does. In small moments. When you laugh without thinking, or forgive yourself for the things you had to do to survive. That’s when you know you’ve stopped lying.”

Jack: “And if it’s only temporary?”

Jeeny: “Then cherish it while it lasts.”

Host: The clock above the counter ticked quietly, its hands moving through the humid air. The waitress turned off one of the lamps, and the shadows grew longer.

Jack: “You make it sound so simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. But it’s possible. That’s enough.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his eyes on the window, watching as the rain slid down like veins of silver. Jeeny smiled faintly, her fingers tracing a circle on the table. The air between them had shifted — softer now, like truth finding its way through cracks of old armor.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack… maybe we don’t ‘get tough’ when we grow up unloved. Maybe we just learn to love differently — fiercely, awkwardly, but honestly.”

Jack: “Maybe.”

Host: Outside, the rain finally stopped. A thin beam of light broke through the clouds, touching the wet pavement. In its reflection, two faces — one hardened, one hopeful — sat in quiet understanding.

The night held its breath, and for the first time, neither of them had to lie.