You're beautiful, like a May fly.

Host: The sun hung low above the lake, its light trembling across the water like liquid gold. The air was still, heavy with the scent of pine, mud, and something faintly sweet — the smell of early summer before it ripens into heat. A lone boat drifted near the shore, tethered to a worn dock that creaked softly under the weight of memory.

Jack sat at the edge, his boots dangling just above the surface, a half-empty bottle of whiskey beside him. His face caught the orange glow, worn and beautiful in a tired sort of way. Jeeny sat a few feet away, her knees pulled up, her hair lifting slightly in the breeze. She was quiet — not the kind of quiet that hides, but the kind that waits.

The world seemed to hold its breath between them.

Jeeny: (softly) “You ever read Hemingway’s letters? The one where he said, ‘You’re beautiful, like a May fly’?”

Jack: (without looking at her) “Yeah. I remember. Fragile beauty. Here today, gone tomorrow.”

Host: His voice was gravel wrapped in velvet — weary, reflective. He reached for the bottle, took a slow sip, and watched a dragonfly dart across the lake, its wings catching the dying light like shards of glass.

Jeeny: “It’s sad, isn’t it? To compare someone’s beauty to something that only lives for a day.”

Jack: “Or honest. Nothing beautiful lasts, Jeeny. That’s the point.”

Jeeny: (frowning) “You think that makes it more beautiful? The dying?”

Jack: “No. The knowing. The fact that it’s brief — that’s what makes it real. You can only love something truly when you know you’ll lose it.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the faint sound of crickets starting their evening song. The water rippled. The world moved — subtly, softly — as if agreeing with him. Jeeny’s eyes followed the line of the horizon, where the sky met the trees, and for a moment, she seemed a part of it — something wild, temporary, alive.

Jeeny: “Maybe. But I think Hemingway got it wrong. The May fly isn’t beautiful because it dies — it’s beautiful because it lives like it doesn’t know it’s dying.”

Jack: (smirking) “That’s poetic. But naïve.”

Jeeny: “Is it? It only has one day. It doesn’t waste it analyzing endings. It just dances. It loves the light, even when the night’s already waiting.”

Host: Her voice was soft, but the kind that finds its way under the skin — slow, certain, impossible to ignore. Jack’s hand tightened around the bottle. The lake’s reflection trembled as a fish broke the surface, a quick silver flash of life and hunger.

Jack: “You talk like you’ve never lost anything.”

Jeeny: “I’ve lost plenty. But loss taught me that beauty isn’t in permanence, Jack. It’s in participation. The May fly doesn’t have time to mourn. It just… is.”

Jack: (dryly) “So we should all live like insects?”

Jeeny: “Maybe we should all love like them. Fearless. Brief. Without the need to own.”

Host: A long silence followed. The sky deepened into shades of violet and amber. The world seemed to lean closer to hear what they wouldn’t say next.

Jack’s eyes were distant — not cruel, but haunted. He reached down, picked up a small stone, and tossed it across the water. It skipped twice, then sank.

Jack: “You sound like my first love. She used to say things like that. Talked about sunsets and souls and living in the moment. Then one day, she just… left. Guess she lived too much like a May fly.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Or maybe she just outgrew waiting for you to see her wings.”

Host: Jack turned to her — not sharply, but like a man surprised by honesty. The sun had dipped lower, leaving only a halo of gold across her face, her eyes darker, more certain. He looked at her — really looked — for the first time that evening.

Jack: “You think I’m afraid of beauty?”

Jeeny: “No. I think you’re afraid of its end. So you pretend not to care.”

Host: The lake stilled, as if the wind itself had stopped to listen. Jack looked down, his reflection fractured by ripples — a man divided between cynicism and longing.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. But what’s the point of falling in love with something that won’t stay?”

Jeeny: “Everything leaves, Jack. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t mean something while it was here.”

Host: Jeeny’s words fell like petals — soft, but heavy enough to stay. Jack exhaled, a slow, reluctant breath that sounded almost like surrender.

Jack: “You think that’s enough? Meaning?”

Jeeny: “It’s all we ever have. You think the May fly knows it’s dying when it dances? Or does it just love the light so much it forgets death exists?”

Host: The last of the sunlight disappeared, leaving behind the first stars, timid and trembling. The night air grew cooler. Somewhere nearby, a frog croaked, an ordinary, unpoetic sound that somehow made everything feel more real.

Jack turned the bottle in his hands, watching the amber liquid catch the faint starlight.

Jack: “So what are you saying? That I should stop guarding myself and start flying toward the light?”

Jeeny: “I’m saying maybe it’s okay to burn a little. The May fly’s beauty isn’t in how long it lasts — it’s in how completely it lives while it can.”

Host: She reached out, her hand brushing his — light as a whisper, as if she wasn’t sure if he’d pull away. He didn’t. Their hands stayed there, side by side, just enough to feel each other’s warmth in the cooling air.

Jack: (after a pause) “You always make everything sound simpler than it is.”

Jeeny: “That’s because you complicate everything that’s simple.”

Host: A small smile crossed his lips — the first real one in days. The moonlight caught it, gave it weight.

He looked out over the lake again, where a single May fly, delicate and radiant, hovered above the surface, caught in the beam of a far-off light.

Jack: “You’re beautiful, you know. Like that — like a May fly.”

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) “Then look while I’m still here.”

Host: Her words hung in the air — soft, inevitable, like the echo of a truth too human to fight. The insect danced above the water for a moment longer, then vanished into the dark, leaving only the ripples behind.

Jeeny leaned her head on Jack’s shoulder, and together they watched the stillness settle again. The stars shimmered faintly above, quiet witnesses to two people finally learning how to live with impermanence.

Host: The night wrapped around them — cool, infinite, forgiving.

And in that quiet, Jack realized something Hemingway had understood long before him: to love the fleeting is to love the real. Because everything beautiful, like the May fly, burns bright not despite its brevity — but because of it.