You know, maybe I was just born in the wrong time, but I love all

Host: The night was humid, the city lights bleeding through the misty glass of the hotel’s rooftop bar. The skyline below shimmered, streets like veins of amber and silver, cars moving like blood beneath the skin of the city. A soft jazz tune floated from the corner — slow, sensual, and achingly nostalgic. Jack sat by the window, his grey eyes fixed on the distant neon, while Jeeny held a glass of red wine, its surface catching the candlelight.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack… maybe I was just born in the wrong time. I love all things romantic. Puffy understands that. For my last birthday, he covered my hotel room floor with rose petals and had flowers and candles all over the room.”

Host: Jack laughed — a low, husky, almost bitter sound that hung in the air like smoke. The candle’s flame wavered, as if reacting to the cynicism in his breath.

Jack: “Rose petals and candles, huh? Sounds like a Hallmark commercial for people who mistake decoration for devotion.”

Jeeny: “You always do that — cut beauty into pieces until there’s nothing left but logic. What’s wrong with a man showing love the old way?”

Host: A gust of wind pressed against the window, rattling the glass. Below them, a taxi splashed through a puddle, its reflection fragmented by the rippling water.

Jack: “Because, Jeeny, love isn’t made of petals and perfumes. It’s built on quiet compromises, shared mornings, unpaid bills, and the patience not to walk away when everything gets ugly. All that candlelight — it’s just distraction.”

Jeeny: “Distraction? No, Jack. It’s expression. You call it surface, but I call it soul. Love needs ritual. It needs beauty. Why do you think people still get married under arches of flowers or light candles at graves? It’s how we honor what words can’t.”

Host: Jack turned, his eyes cold, but not unfeeling. His fingers drummed against the table, a habit of his when thoughts churned inside.

Jack: “You know what I see when I look at all that? A performance. We’ve turned love into theater. A thousand-dollar bouquet says more about wealth than sincerity. When Nero’s Rome burned, people still threw parties in silk robes. Humans love pretending. That’s all romance is — an illusion we pay for.”

Jeeny: “You talk like you’ve never loved anyone. Like love is a contract, not a heartbeat.”

Host: The bartender passed, his tray clinking softly with glasses, the scent of citrus and gin trailing in his wake. The city’s hum below was constant, a heartbeat of its own — lonely, mechanical, but alive.

Jack: “I have loved, Jeeny. That’s why I don’t trust the fantasy. I once bought roses, cooked dinner, even wrote a letter — by hand, imagine that — and when it ended, none of it mattered. You can’t preserve love with petals any more than you can stop time with perfume.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it wasn’t the roses or the dinner that failed, Jack. Maybe it was the fear behind them. You gave to be loved, not to love. That’s different.”

Host: Her words hit him like a quiet bullet. The music softened, and for a moment, the room felt smaller, closer, the air thick with memory.

Jack: “You think you’re some kind of romantic prophet. But tell me, Jeeny — when was the last time someone loved without expectation? Even your perfect Puffy — do you think he wasn’t expecting admiration for his performance?”

Jeeny: “He didn’t have to expect it. I gave it willingly. Because love isn’t about efficiency, Jack. It’s about meaning. About gestures that say — you matter enough for me to make beauty out of this moment.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled, but with fire, not weakness. The reflection of the city danced across her eyes, turning them into windows of flame.

Jeeny: “Look at history. Cleopatra sailed down the Nile with purple sails just to meet Antony. Beethoven wrote entire sonatas for women who never heard them. Were they fools, or were they the only ones truly alive?”

Jack: “And look how they ended, Jeeny — dead, ruined, heartbroken. Cleopatra died by a snake’s bite, Antony by his own sword. Beethoven died deaf and alone. Romance doesn’t sustain life; it devours it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But at least they lived for something more than mere survival. Isn’t it better to burn in love than freeze in practicality?”

Host: The silence that followed was heavy, thick with unsaid words. Jack took a slow sip of whiskey, his eyes drifting to the rain now sliding down the glass. Each droplet caught the city’s light, breaking it into a thousand tiny colors — like fragments of a shattered dream.

Jack: “Burning feels poetic when you’re young. But when you’re older, you realize ashes don’t keep you warm.”

Jeeny: “So, you’d rather never light the fire?”

Jack: “No. I just think love’s fire should cook food, not burn the house.”

Host: Jeeny laughed, but there was a trace of sadness in her smile. She leaned back, her hair falling over her shoulder, the light catching its edges like black silk.

Jeeny: “You always use metaphors like armor, Jack. Maybe the truth is simpler — you don’t want to believe in beauty because it reminds you of what you’ve lost.”

Host: His jaw tightened, a flicker of pain crossing his face, gone as quickly as it appeared. He looked away, exhaling through his nose, a sound between a laugh and a sigh.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m allergic to hope. But tell me, Jeeny — if love is petals and candles, what happens when the petals rot and the candles burn out?”

Jeeny: “Then you light new ones, Jack. You keep lighting them. That’s the point. Love is not preserved by permanence, it’s renewed by choice. Every rose wilts, but someone who loves will plant another.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, soft and steady, like the echo of a prayer. Outside, a distant thunder rolled, the sky darkening into a velvet storm.

Jack: “You talk like love is a religion.”

Jeeny: “It is. The only one worth worshiping.”

Jack: “And I suppose heartbreak is the crucifixion.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But redemption still follows.”

Host: A lightning flash illuminated their faces — one hardened by reason, the other softened by faith. In that brief moment, they looked like two portraits of the same soul, split by time and belief.

Jack: “You ever think maybe you were born in the wrong time, Jeeny? Because the world doesn’t believe in gestures anymore. It believes in speed, convenience, and algorithms.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why romance matters more than ever. It’s rebellion. Every candle lit is an act of defiance against indifference.”

Host: The storm broke, rain streaming down the windows like tears of the city itself. The sound was steady, cleansing. Jack watched, silent, his fingers now still on the table.

Jack: “You make it sound beautiful.”

Jeeny: “Because it is. Because even if it’s doomed, even if it’s fleeting — it’s what reminds us we’re still human.”

Host: The music shifted, the saxophone trailing into a slow, aching note that lingered like memory. Jack looked at her then, really looked, and something in his expression softened — a crack in the armor.

Jack: “You know… maybe I was born in the wrong time too. Maybe I just forgot how to remember it.”

Jeeny: “Then let me remind you.”

Host: She reached across the table, her hand finding his. Their fingers intertwined, quietly, as the storm raged around them. The city’s lights blurred through the rain, turning the window into a canvas of melting gold and blue.

Host: And in that moment, between the noise and the silence, between cynicism and hope, love breathed again — not in the candles or the roses, but in the simple act of two souls staying, despite the storm.