Arguments only confirm people in their own opinions.

Host: The rain had fallen all day — a grey, steady curtain over the city, softening its edges and muting its noise. The café was almost empty, just the low hum of an espresso machine and the murmur of distant traffic. The windows were fogged, the air thick with the smell of coffee and quiet frustration.

Jack sat by the window, a notebook open, a half-drunk cup of black coffee beside him. His grey eyes followed the raindrops as they ran down the glass, colliding, merging, falling. Jeeny arrived in her usual rush — umbrella dripping, coat clinging, her hair a dark, damp halo.

She smiled faintly, but her eyes were tired — the kind of tired that doesn’t come from sleep, but from talking too much and being heard too little.

Jeeny: “You look like a man who just lost an argument.”

Jack: “I didn’t lose. I just realized I wasted an hour.”

Jeeny: “Ah. Then you did lose.”

Host: Jack snorted, leaning back, fingers drumming on the table.

Jack: “Booth Tarkington once said, ‘Arguments only confirm people in their own opinions.’ Guess he was right. I tried to convince my old friend that the system’s broken — economy, politics, all of it — and he just got louder. The more I explained, the more certain he became that I was wrong.”

Jeeny: “That’s not surprising. People don’t listen to understand. They listen to reload.”

Jack: “Exactly. It’s pointless. The world’s just a shouting match where everyone’s deaf.”

Host: Jeeny removed her coat, hung it on the chair, and sat down. Her movements were calm, measured, but her eyes burned with that quiet fire she always carried.

Jeeny: “You sound bitter.”

Jack: “No. Just realistic.”

Jeeny: “Realistic is your word for cynical.”

Jack: “And yours for naïve.”

Host: The exchange was sharp, but not unkind. They had fought before — not to win, but to understand. Or maybe, to feel less alone in the noise.

Jeeny: “So you think arguing is useless?”

Jack: “Completely. You can’t change minds with logic. People aren’t machines. They defend their beliefs like borders — touch the fence, and they electrify it.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you keep trying.”

Jack: “Habit, I guess. Like scratching a scar.”

Host: The barista passed by, placing a fresh cup of coffee in front of Jeeny. The steam rose in lazy swirls, mingling with the rain’s reflection.

Jeeny: “Maybe Tarkington was half-right. Arguments don’t change people — but they reveal them. You don’t argue to convert; you argue to see.”

Jack: “To see what? Their stubbornness?”

Jeeny: “Their heart. Their fears. What they’re protecting under the words.”

Jack: “That’s poetic, but nonsense. Fear doesn’t make people stubborn — pride does.”

Jeeny: “And what do you think pride protects?”

Host: Jack paused, his eyes lowering to his hands. A beat of silence — long, almost gentle — hung between them.

Jack: “Maybe… the fear of being wrong.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. So if arguments don’t change opinions, maybe it’s because we attack the surface — the words — not what’s underneath them.”

Jack: “And how would you reach underneath, Jeeny? With empathy?”

Jeeny: “Yes.”

Jack: “Empathy doesn’t work on people who’ve already decided you’re the enemy.”

Jeeny: “Then you stop trying to win. You just listen.”

Jack: “That’s not an argument. That’s surrender.”

Jeeny: “No. That’s grace.”

Host: The rain beat harder against the windows, as if echoing the tension in their voices. The light from the street bled through the glass, painting their faces in shifting shades of amber and grey.

Jack: “You sound like one of those idealists who thinks compassion can fix the world. But people don’t change through kindness — they change through shock. History proves it.”

Jeeny: “History also proves that shock doesn’t last. It terrifies people into silence, not understanding.”

Jack: “What about civil rights? Revolution? None of that happened because people listened to each other.”

Jeeny: “No. But the change that survived came from those who spoke with conviction, not rage. Dr. King didn’t shout louder — he spoke clearer.”

Jack: “And still got killed for it.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But his words lived. Because they reached hearts, not just minds.”

Host: Jack looked away, his eyes following a drop of rain as it slid down the window, cutting through its reflection like a tear.

Jack: “You always think there’s something left to reach. Some tender place in everyone.”

Jeeny: “Because there is. You just have to stop arguing long enough to find it.”

Host: A silence settled, not cold, but reflective. The café dimmed, its lights soft, intimate, like a confessional.

Jack: “You know what I think, Jeeny? Arguments aren’t for others. They’re for ourselves. We argue because we’re not sure we believe what we’re saying — we need to hear it out loud.”

Jeeny: “Yes. It’s how we test our truths. But once we start arguing to prove instead of to explore, we lose the point.”

Jack: “So maybe Tarkington meant that too — that every argument hardens both sides.”

Jeeny: “Unless one of them stops defending and starts asking.”

Jack: “You really think asking questions changes anything?”

Jeeny: “It changes you. And sometimes that’s enough.”

Host: Jack smiled — not mockingly, but tiredly, the kind of smile that admits defeat to something he can’t quite deny.

Jack: “You make everything sound softer than it is.”

Jeeny: “Because softness doesn’t mean weakness, Jack. It’s what bends without breaking.”

Jack: “And I’m the thing that breaks?”

Jeeny: “No. You’re the thing that fights the wind instead of letting it pass.”

Host: Outside, the rain eased, slowing, as if listening to them. A couple walked by, their reflections blurring in the wet pavement — two shadows moving as one.

Jack: “You know… maybe that’s why I argue. Not to change them. To feel less alone in what I believe.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s why I listen — to remind you that you’re not.”

Host: The barista switched off the machine; the sound of steam faded, leaving only the soft drizzle outside.

Jack: “So, what do we do then? If arguing just hardens people, do we stop talking altogether?”

Jeeny: “No. We change how we talk. We stop fighting for victory and start speaking for truth.”

Jack: “Truth’s a tricky word.”

Jeeny: “So is love. But we still use it.”

Host: Jack’s eyes met hers — a moment of stillness, genuine, unguarded. The rain had stopped now, and the city lights reflected off the wet streets, shining like freshly forgiven words.

Jack: “You always win these talks, you know.”

Jeeny: “Only because you let me.”

Jack: “No. Because you remind me it’s not about winning.”

Host: The clock ticked, the night folded quietly around the café, and for the first time, there was no need to speak.

Outside, the rain lifted from the city, leaving a clear, fragile light over the pavement — the kind that makes everything look new, even the things that never change.

And as they sat there, side by side, their silence said what every argument forgets: that the heart hears what logic never can.