Title: “Four on the Balcony”
[Scene opens: Four separate balconies, four separate lives, all tied together through a group chat. It’s late. The air is thick with nostalgia, overthinking, and just the right amount of denial. Benny starts the conversation.]
B: There’s something wrong with the champagne glasses Nidnod handed me a decade ago when he rented out that condo for me.
K: Let me guess, they’re still in perfect condition, untouched, just like your commitment to questionable life choices?
M: Or did you finally break one?
Mel: Hold on, are we talking metaphorical brokenness or actual broken glass? Because I feel like both are on the table.
B: I’m not broken. The glasses aren’t broken. But something feels… off about them.
K: Translation: You’re emotionally hoarding again.
M: Benny doesn’t break things, she just stares at them long enough for them to feel useless.
B: Okay, wow, thanks for the support.
Mel: I mean, if we’re honest, B, your entire place is basically a museum of unresolved emotions.
B: It’s not a museum! I just… don’t use them because they feel like they belong to another version of me. One that thought things would turn out different.
K: You thought things would turn out “champagne-worthy.”
Mel: And yet, here we are with an unopened bottle and glasses full of what? Existential dread?
B: It’s not dread. It’s… nostalgia.
M: It’s hoarding.
K: Let’s be real. You bought the champagne for some “future occasion” that never happened, didn’t you?
B: …Maybe.
Mel: I knew it.
K: B, you collect ghosts in glassware. Just drink out of the damn glass.
B: You all suck.
M: We’re just saying… those glasses are mocking you at this point.
Mel: If the glasses could talk, they’d say “pop the damn bottle already.”
B: I can’t throw them out. I mean, Nidnod was the only person who thought I deserved something fancy.
K: So you’re keeping them out of guilt?
B: Not guilt. Just… hope?
M: Hope that what? He comes back?
Mel: Hope that you’ll finally believe you deserve more than a borrowed condo and a set of glasses collecting dust.
B: …Maybe.
K: B, drink from the damn glass. Or break them. Either way, stop letting them haunt your cabinet.
Mel: Yeah, cheers to yourself for once.
B: You guys really think it’s that easy?
M: Yes. You make it hard because you want it to mean more than it does.
K: But it’s just glass.
Mel: And champagne.
B: …Fine. I’ll open the bottle tonight.
M: I’ll believe it when I see it.
K: Live stream or it didn’t happen.
Mel: If you don’t text “cheers” in 30 minutes, we’re showing up with pizza and judgment.
B: You wouldn’t dare.
M: Try us.
*[Benny stares at the glasses, sighs, and walks to the fridge. The group chat stays open, their words lingering on the screen as she reaches for the bottle.]
____________
[Scene: The group chat lights up again. It’s late.]
B: Hey, I’m dry dirty drunk by your all forced champagne.
K: Finally. Took you long enough. How’s the taste of regret?
M: Correction: How’s the taste of moving on?
Mel: I’m just proud you didn’t put it back in the fridge and stare at it for another decade.
B: I hate all of you.
K: We know. Now, tell me, did you toast to something or just chug it in pure defiance?
B: I toasted to shutting you all up.
M: Solid reason. Cheers.
Mel: Let’s be honest, though. You’re not drunk yet. You’re just tipsy enough to start thinking existential thoughts.
B: It’s true. Why does champagne feel like an invitation to rethink my entire life?
K: Because it’s fizzy regret in a glass.
M: Or hope, depending on your level of delusion.
B: I hate how accurate that is.
Mel: What song is playing right now? Let me guess, something dramatic?
B: …Desperado.
K: HA! Knew it. You’re in full reflective mode.
M: Classic. By the end of the night, you’ll be writing poetry about the bubbles representing fleeting moments of joy.
B: Shut up.
Mel: Nah, we’re here for this mess.
B: I swear, I’m blocking all of you tomorrow.
K: Sure, sure. But tonight, you’re ours.
M: So, are you gonna finish the bottle or let it sit half-empty like your inbox?
B: I’m dry dirty drunk, not dead. I’ll finish it.
Mel: Atta girl. Pour another and let’s get weird.
B: You guys are the worst influence.
K: You’re welcome.
M: Drink, B. It’s not that deep.
B: It’s always that deep with me.
Mel: True, but at least tonight, it’s deep with a little sparkle.
B: Cheers, you idiots.
*[The chat continues, chaotic and loving, while Benny stares at the bottle, feeling just tipsy enough to let go—if only for tonight.]
FADE OUT.
_______________
The Champagne Problem – B & Mel
Mel: You still need time and space?
B: Mel.
Sorry I called you that.
Mel: No need to apologize. It’s not like I hate that name. You good?
B: Time is not my favor, space is yours.
Wanna call?
Mel: I should know that. 🙂
B: There’s something wrong with the champagne glasses.
Mel: Oh no. What’s wrong? Cracked? Cloudy? Or just… cursed?
B: They still sparkle. But they feel off in my hands. Like they know too much.
Mel: Too much like a memory?
B: Maybe.
Or maybe they just remind me how many times I filled them up trying to celebrate things that never really felt like victories.
Mel: And now?
B: Now they sit in my fridge like ghosts. I keep thinking I should just open them, toast to something—anything. But I don’t.
Mel: Because it feels like admitting something’s over?
B: Or admitting it never really started.
Mel: And you? What are you up to?
B: I’m… moving. Letting things be. Watching the world pretend everything’s fine.
Mel: Classic distraction. You think you’re waiting for something?
B: I know I’m not. Not my style.
Mel: But you’re still staring at the bottle, aren’t you?
B: Maybe. But I haven’t touched it. That counts for something, right?
Mel: Sure. Avoidance is a form of control, I guess.
B: You think I’m avoiding the truth or just avoiding what I already know?
Mel: Both. But mostly yourself.
B: Damn, Mel. You wanna do an oracle reading or something?
Mel: Lol. When you’re ready. I miss the fun. ☺️
B: I will, when time is in my favor. 😉
Mel: Never? Lol
B: Or always?
(Mel sends a sticker of a baby hugging a dog—soft, affectionate, safe.)
Mel: You’re the boss.
B: Nah. I’m just the girl staring at champagne glasses like they hold all the answers.
___________
At 3 AM.
B: Mel, in another parallel universe, I already popped that champagne open.
Mel: And? What happened?
B: I took a sip, laughed too loud, and spilled it all over my old journals.
Mel: Sounds about right. Did you regret it?
B: Not really. It felt like closing a chapter. Like finally saying, “Okay, that happened.”
Mel: And in this universe?
B: In this universe, I’m still staring at it. Letting it sit there, waiting for the right moment.
Mel: Or waiting for it to disappear on its own.
B: Maybe. Or maybe I like the idea of what it represents more than what it actually is.
Mel: So what does it represent?
B: Celebration. Closure. Proof that I can still enjoy something without overthinking it.
Mel: And yet… here we are.
B: Yep. Here we are.
Mel: You know, in another parallel universe, you never bought that champagne in the first place.
B: And what’s she like? That version of me?
Mel: She’s probably out there, living in the moment. Not analyzing old glasses, just picking up new ones.
B: I like her.
Mel: Me too.
B: But I’m still here, right?
Mel: Yeah. And that’s okay.
B: You sure?
Mel: Positive. But hey… maybe just take one sip. No analysis, no overthinking. Just one sip.
B: In this universe?
Mel: In any universe you want.
B: (from her balcony, staring at the champagne) You know, I think this bottle is judging me.
Mel: (from her balcony, scrolling through her phone) It’s not judging you, B. It’s just… existing. You’re the one giving it a personality.
B: Oh great, now I’m projecting onto glass objects. New low.
Mel: I mean, it’s an upgrade from projecting onto people. Progress?
B: Touché. But seriously, Mel, it’s like… I can hear it whispering, “You’re never gonna open me, are you?”
Mel: B, it’s a bottle, not a ghost. You don’t have to open it. It’s not a metaphor for your life.
B: But what if it is, though?
Mel: Then it’s the most dramatic bottle of champagne I’ve ever heard of.
B: You know I don’t do small things. Even my avoidance has layers.
Mel: That should be your autobiography title. Layers of Avoidance: The B Chronicles.
B: I’d read it, honestly. But no, really… what if I just leave it there? Forever?
Mel: Then you leave it. No one’s forcing you to pop the cork. Just because it’s there doesn’t mean you owe it anything.
B: Hah. Imagine that. Me, not owing something anything.
Mel: You’re too hard on yourself. Sometimes a bottle is just a bottle.
B: And sometimes it’s a ticking time bomb.
Mel: Well, I guess we’ll see which it is when—or if—you ever open it.
B: Wanna place bets?
Mel: Nah, I’d lose. I still think you’ll find a way to turn it into a life lesson before you take a sip.
B: Mel, in another parallel universe, I already drank the whole thing and danced on this balcony.
Mel: And in another, you never even brought it home.
B: I hate that version of me.
Mel: She’s probably less complicated.
B: Boring.
Mel: Exactly. But hey… complicated or not, you still get to choose. Open it, don’t open it—either way, you’re still you.
B: And you’re still here, listening to me ramble.
Mel: Always.
_______________
[On phone, texting.]
B: Guys, I gave him a proposal, wear my own fucking damn ring, be exclusive on my own. What am I doing? Marrying to myself. Fucked. (drunk already, by on-the-rock wiskey neat)
Mel: (laughing) B, you really just proposed to yourself? I knew you were ahead of your time, but damn.
B: (dramatically waving her hand) It’s not a proposal, Mel. It’s a declaration. A commitment. To me. To my own damn stability.
Mel: Uh-huh. And how’s that whiskey working out for your stability?
B: (staring at the glass) Enhancing it. Or maybe ruining it. I haven’t decided yet.
Mel: So, what’s next? A honeymoon with yourself?
B: Already booked. Balcony, whiskey, questionable life choices.
K: (texting from his balcony) Can I be the wedding planner? I feel like this event needs a structured timeline.
B: No, K. This is a free-flowing disaster. No schedules allowed.
Mel: And what about vows? Did you write them?
B: Of course I did. “I promise to honor, cherish, and occasionally tolerate my own bullshit.”
K: Beautiful. Breathtaking. Truly.
Mel: And the ring?
B: (flashing her hand) Right here. I wear it for myself, by myself, on my own damn terms.
Mel: I mean, self-love is in, right? You’re just a trendsetter.
B: Or a lunatic. Either works.
K: Nah, you’re just proving that nobody meets your standards quite like you do.
B: Exactly! Finally, someone gets it.
Mel: So, when do we celebrate this self-marriage?
B: We already are. Drink up, you’re my bridesmaids.
Mel: Cheers to that.
K: I’ll drink to anything at this point.
____________
K, Mel, and B (M)
B: Fuck champagne. Whiskey. Neat. Who else wanna marry me? I wouldn’t marry me either—pathological pleaser with a side of self-sabotage.
Mel: (laughing) Babe, please. Five guys already proposed, and you’re over here planning your wedding to solitude.
B: (raising glass) Solitude never disappoints. No expectations, no drama, just pure, unfiltered me.
Mel: And yet, here we are, processing your existential crisis over whiskey instead of champagne.
B: Champagne’s for celebration. Whiskey’s for reflection.
K: (texting from his balcony) You’re not a pathological pleaser, B. You just… have an aggressive customer service side.
B: Oh, shut up. I’ve been handing out free trials of myself my whole damn life.
Mel: And somehow still out here rejecting the full subscriptions.
B: (laughs) What can I say? They don’t read the terms and conditions.
K: I bet they’d still hit “agree” without reading.
Mel: Five already did. What’s the deal, B? Why say no every time?
B: Because they see the shine, not the mess. The pleasing, not the fire. They want the version of me that doesn’t exist 24/7.
Mel: So… are you just gonna keep running?
B: No, I’ll just sit here, drink, and pretend I have it all figured out.
K: Classic. Bridesmaids, take notes.
Mel: Cheers to self-awareness and whiskey.
______________
45.34 minutes later.
B: K, you did that. How does it feel like? Commitment? In love at the time? Taking care of each other ‘til the last breath?
K: (pauses, typing…) It felt… inevitable at first. Like stepping onto a train you think is heading somewhere grand. Turns out, it was just a local route going in circles.
Mel: Damn, K. That’s bleak.
K: Reality is bleak, Mel. Commitment? Sure. Love? Yeah, in pieces. But taking care of each other till the last breath? That’s where people get it wrong. Sometimes it’s not ‘til the last breath, it’s ‘til the last ounce of patience.
B: So, regret? Or just life being life?
K: No regrets. Just lessons. Commitment isn’t a contract; it’s a gamble. And love… well, love’s only as good as the version of yourself you’re willing to bring to the table.
Mel: And you brought…?
K: The best I had. But turns out, my best and their best weren’t a match. You can be two great people and still be a terrible team.
B: Huh. So no ‘til death do us part’ after all?
K: Nah. More like ‘’til resentment takes over.’
Mel: Okay, that’s it. We’re drinking more. B, pour.
B: (pours whiskey) Here’s to love, commitment, and the wild ride in between.
K: And to knowing when to jump off the train.
____________
B: You Jump, I Jump
K: Nah, B. I jumped, and I landed. You’re still debating if the water’s too cold.
Mel: More like she’s trying to build the damn bridge first.
B: Excuse me? I’m just making sure the landing doesn’t break my legs, alright?
K: You don’t plan your way into falling, B. You just fall.
B: Easy for you to say, Mr. “No Regrets.” I don’t do reckless jumps. I calculate the risk.
Mel: And yet here you are, whiskey neat in one hand, metaphorical parachute in the other.
B: Look, I just— I don’t wanna hit the ground and realize I should’ve stayed on the ledge.
K: That’s the thing. You won’t realize it ‘til you’re already halfway down. And by then? Too late to go back.
Mel: And what’s so bad about falling, B? Maybe it’s not the crash you’re scared of. Maybe it’s what comes after.
B: Sigh. Maybe I just don’t trust the net to still be there.
K: The net? B, you’re the damn net. You always have been.
Mel: And the jumper. And the bridge builder. And probably the insurance policy too.
B: Great. Love that for me.
K: So? You jump, I jump?
B: Yes, for you, I will.
Mel: Classic.
____________
End
B: So actually,
I don’t have champange fucking problem. I don’t even have a bottle. Never have one. Just dance, let the night falls. And I walk home.. Alone.
Mel: Did P’s offered you a ride?
B: he could not figure out how much I respect him.. Bros? Yeah, til death or…
K: Til death or ‘til he realizes you’re way out of his league?
Mel: Or ‘til he stops trying to decode you like a damn mystery novel.
B: He’s not decoding shit, Mel. He just… exists. In his own little world.
K: And you’re what? A tourist?
B: More like a passing cloud. I drift in, I drift out. No strings, no mess.
Mel: Yeah, yeah. And yet here we are, talking about him. Again.
B: I can talk about people I respect, Mel. It’s not a crime.
K: But walking home alone is?
B: It’s just… cleaner. No expectations, no awkward pauses at my door.
Mel: No one to watch you fumble with your keys, you mean.
B: Exactly. No witness, no embarrassment.
K: No connection.
B: Takes a sip Connections are overrated.
Mel: B, you respect him. But respect doesn’t mean you have to keep him at arm’s length forever.
B: Yeah, well, respect also means knowing when to walk away before things get complicated.
K: Or before you let them get real.
B: Whatever helps you sleep at night.
Mel: You don’t sleep, though.
B: 🐺
______________
