American universities are so expensive. My family couldn't afford

Host: The coffee shop hummed with that soft, familiar chaos of late-night study sessions — the clinking of mugs, the quiet chatter of exhausted students, and the mechanical sigh of the espresso machine breathing life into paper deadlines. Rain streaked the windows, blurring the city lights outside into watercolor constellations.

Jack sat in the corner, surrounded by books and the kind of weary determination that only debt and dreams can produce. A half-finished latte steamed beside him, its surface long since gone cold. Across from him sat Jeeny, still in her grad-school hoodie, her hair tied loosely, her eyes sharp with empathy and fatigue.

Between them lay a wrinkled newspaper clipping — a quote from Pauline Chalamet, folded carefully and underlined in blue ink:

“American universities are so expensive. My family couldn’t afford to send me, so I took out student loans and had to pay my own way.”

Jeeny: “You can hear the exhaustion behind it, can’t you? That mix of pride and punishment — like success cost her everything but her sleep.”

Jack: dryly “Sounds familiar. Only difference is, she made it. Most of us just get the debt without the spotlight.”

Host: The rain deepened outside, its rhythm syncing with the heartbeat of ambition that pulsed faintly through the room. A group of undergrads laughed near the counter — young, oblivious, their future bills still invisible.

Jeeny: “It’s not just debt. It’s devotion. People go into this system believing it’s the path to freedom, and it ends up chaining them to survival.”

Jack: “The great American irony — education as liberation, priced like imprisonment.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound like knowledge’s fault. It’s not learning that enslaves us, Jack. It’s the way we’ve commodified it.”

Jack: “Doesn’t matter. The system eats idealists just the same. You pay to prove you’re worth being listened to, and by the time you are, you’ve lost your voice.”

Jeeny: “Or you use the debt as fuel. That’s what she did. You take what was meant to break you and turn it into art, into purpose.”

Host: The barista wiped the counter, humming an old song that no one else remembered. The lights flickered once, dimmed slightly, then steadied again — like the café itself was fighting off sleep.

Jack rubbed his eyes, exhaustion etched deep in his face.

Jack: “You ever think about how absurd it is? Paying for the right to think? For the privilege of curiosity?”

Jeeny: “Curiosity has always been costly. The Greeks paid in exile, the scientists in ridicule, the artists in hunger. We just pay in interest rates.”

Jack: half-smiling “Modern suffering — digitized and compounded monthly.”

Jeeny: “You joke, but it’s true. We’ve built a world where wisdom is luxury, not necessity.”

Host: The clock behind the counter ticked past midnight. The café had begun to empty, leaving behind only the hum of machinery and the low music drifting from a worn speaker.

Jeeny stared into her cup, her reflection trembling on the surface.

Jeeny: “When I was little, my mother used to say education was the one thing no one could take from you. But now it feels like they rent it to us — at interest.”

Jack: “That’s because it stopped being a right and became a business. You don’t buy enlightenment anymore; you finance it.”

Jeeny: “And yet… we keep showing up. We keep learning. Maybe that’s the real rebellion — staying curious when the world keeps charging you for it.”

Host: The rain outside turned into a gentle drizzle, the sound softening like a sigh. Jack closed his book, the spine cracked, the pages full of handwritten notes and unpaid dreams.

Jack: “You ever wonder if it’s worth it? The years, the money, the weight?”

Jeeny: “Every day. But then I think — what’s the alternative? Ignorance isn’t cheaper. It just costs the soul instead of the wallet.”

Jack: quietly “You sound like someone who’s already chosen her side.”

Jeeny: “I have to. I’ve seen what happens when people give up on learning. The light in their eyes goes out — like they’ve forgotten the language of possibility.”

Host: She spoke softly, but her words carried the weight of conviction — the kind that comes only from surviving disappointment. Jack leaned back, his gaze drifting toward the window, where reflections of neon signs shimmered like broken promises.

Jack: “You ever think it’s cruel? That we have to mortgage our futures just to learn who we are?”

Jeeny: “Cruel, yes. But maybe also divine. Because the things we struggle hardest for — knowledge, truth, dignity — they mark us. They make us conscious. That’s the price of awakening.”

Jack: “So, debt as baptism?”

Jeeny: laughing softly “Something like that. You drown in it, and if you’re lucky, you resurface with wisdom.”

Host: The silence between them softened, filled only by the faint sound of the rain tapering off. Jeeny gathered the newspaper clipping, smoothed it, and placed it gently inside her notebook like a fragile relic of shared struggle.

Jeeny: “You know, Pauline wasn’t just talking about money. She was talking about effort — about ownership. The idea that if you have to fight for your education, it becomes part of you.”

Jack: “You’re romanticizing pain again.”

Jeeny: “No. I’m dignifying it.”

Jack: quietly, after a moment “Maybe you’re right. Maybe what’s killing us isn’t the cost — it’s the cynicism. The idea that it’s not worth it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s how they win — when we stop believing learning can change us.”

Host: The café’s lights dimmed further as the barista flipped the sign on the door to CLOSED. Outside, the wet streets gleamed, reflecting the tired but steady glow of the city’s heartbeat.

Jack rose, gathering his things. Jeeny followed, pulling her hood over her head. As they stepped out into the cool night air, the rain had stopped completely, leaving the world washed, raw, and renewed.

Jack: “You think it ever gets easier?”

Jeeny: “No. But maybe it gets clearer. We learn why we’re fighting.”

Jack: “And what’s your reason?”

Jeeny: “To make sure no one ever has to buy their chance to dream.”

Host: The camera lingered on the empty table inside — two half-finished cups, a folded clipping, and a single pen lying forgotten. The neon sign buzzed faintly above, spelling CAFÉ in flickering letters.

Outside, the two of them walked down the glistening street, small against the sprawling city, yet luminous in their persistence.

And as the scene faded, Pauline Chalamet’s words echoed softly — not as complaint, but as quiet triumph:

“American universities are so expensive. My family couldn’t afford to send me, so I took out student loans and had to pay my own way.”

Host: The rain had stopped. The debt remained. But so did the dream — stubborn, imperfect, unbreakable — the dream of knowledge, of dignity, of carving one’s own light through the darkness.