Both the Obama and Romney campaigns said they pulled all their

Host: The television’s glow filled the small newsroom, casting flickers of blue and white light on the walls, the desks, and the faces of those too tired to leave. Outside, the city hummed with traffic, but in here — there was only the sound of keys clicking, coffee dripping, and the soft drone of a political broadcast.

It was the anniversary of September 11th. The sky outside was clear — too clear, too calm, as if the day itself wanted to pretend memory had softened.

Jack sat slouched at the editing bay, a half-empty bottle of water beside him, staring at the muted TV screen where the words of Mara Liasson’s report rolled across the bottom:
“Both the Obama and Romney campaigns said they pulled all their political ads today in observance of the September 11th anniversary. But politics wasn’t very far offstage…”

Jeeny entered quietly, her coat still damp from the rain, a folder of notes pressed against her chest.

Jeeny: “Still watching that?”

Jack: “It’s habit. The theatre never closes, Jeeny. They just dim the lights for the tragedy.”

Host: Her eyes softened as she looked at the screen — the looping footage of flags, candles, memorials. The faces of old grief on new television.

Jeeny: “At least they paused the ads today.”

Jack: “Yeah. For twenty-four hours, they pretend decency is bipartisan.”

Host: The light flickered across Jack’s face — sharp, tired, but still burning with a kind of anger that had nowhere left to go.

Jeeny set down her notes, her voice low, deliberate.

Jeeny: “You think there’s no sincerity left in politics?”

Jack: “Not sincerity — strategy. They pulled the ads because optics matter. They’ll mourn on camera, then fundraise off empathy tomorrow.”

Jeeny: “You really think it’s all manipulation? Even on a day like this?”

Jack: “Especially on a day like this. Emotion is currency, Jeeny. September 11th isn’t just memory — it’s a stage. Everyone’s playing to the crowd.”

Host: A long silence followed, the sound of the air conditioner filling the space like static. Jeeny’s hands folded slowly, her fingers pale against the dark wood of the desk.

Jeeny: “Maybe you’re right. But maybe that stage still gives people something to hold onto. Even if it’s rehearsed — maybe it’s the only way they know how to remember.”

Jack: “Remember what? The dead, or the fear?”

Jeeny: “Both. We built our identity out of both.”

Host: The room dimmed as the TV changed to another report — clips of campaign rallies, flags waving, crowds cheering under the banner of “unity.” Jack snorted, shaking his head.

Jack: “Unity. The most overused word in the language. It’s like perfume over rot.”

Jeeny: “And yet people still buy it.”

Jack: “Because it smells like hope. Until the next scandal.”

Host: He leaned back, rubbing his temples. The clock ticked above them — steady, relentless, like the pulse of a country trying to forget its wounds.

Jeeny: “You know what I think? We’ve mistaken cynicism for wisdom. Just because we can see the strings doesn’t mean the puppet show has no meaning.”

Jack: “Meaning doesn’t survive monetization. You want proof? They’re already spinning 9/11 as campaign branding — ‘steady leadership,’ ‘foreign policy strength.’ They’ll mention Bin Laden like an applause line.”

Jeeny: “Obama’s campaign did that because foreign policy was his advantage. He ended a war. He got the man responsible.”

Jack: “And then used it as a slogan.”

Jeeny: “Wouldn’t you? If you were him — standing before a country that doubts everything but the flag?”

Host: The light caught Jeeny’s face — her eyes dark but alive, her voice trembling not from fear but conviction. She moved closer, the hum of the TV washing between them like a tide of ghosts.

Jeeny: “You can call it manipulation, Jack, but leadership is theatre by necessity. You have to play the role or the crowd loses faith.”

Jack: “Then what’s left of truth?”

Jeeny: “The fragments between rehearsals.”

Host: For a moment, they said nothing. The rain began again, faint and rhythmic, tapping on the window as if the sky itself wanted to remind them what loss once sounded like.

Jack: “You know, I was in New York that morning. I saw it happen. The smoke, the screaming. I remember people covered in ash — strangers holding each other like family. For a day, everything false was stripped away. No parties. No campaigns. Just fear and humanity. And now—” he gestured toward the screen “—it’s a brand.”

Jeeny: “And yet you still watch.”

Jack: “Because I can’t stop hoping it’ll mean something again.”

Host: The word hope sat between them — small, fragile, and alive.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why politics exists, Jack. Because hope needs a stage, too. Even if the actors lie sometimes, the audience still believes in the play.”

Jack: “So you think lies are justified if they make people feel safe?”

Jeeny: “No. But maybe comfort isn’t always deceit. Maybe it’s mercy.”

Host: The television cut to a shot of the memorial lights — twin beams of white fire piercing the sky where the towers once stood. For a heartbeat, both Jack and Jeeny turned toward it, their reflections merging on the glass.

Jack: “You ever wonder what we’d be if tragedy hadn’t given us identity?”

Jeeny: “Lost.”

Jack: “We are lost.”

Jeeny: “No. We’re searching. That’s different.”

Host: Her voice was quiet, but steady — like a truth she’d rehearsed in her own loneliness. Jack’s eyes softened; his hands, once tense, relaxed.

Jack: “You really think meaning can survive politics?”

Jeeny: “It has to. Otherwise, the dead are just statistics, and remembrance is just scheduling.”

Host: The TV sound faded to a commercial break — muted patriotism replaced by the sale of insurance and pharmaceuticals. The irony hung heavy in the air.

Jack: “You know what the cruelest thing about all this is? They pulled the ads, but they never pulled the act.”

Jeeny: “Maybe some acts are worth repeating — if only to remind us that grief isn’t partisan.”

Jack: “But exploitation is.”

Jeeny: “So is silence.”

Host: The storm outside deepened, the thunder distant but echoing, as if the earth itself was remembering. Jeeny picked up her notes, closing the folder gently.

Jeeny: “I think every democracy walks a line between performance and principle. Sometimes the performance is the only way to keep the principle alive.”

Jack: “And sometimes the performance becomes the principle.”

Jeeny: “That’s when people like us are supposed to notice.”

Host: Jack looked at her, then at the screen, where the tribute broadcast resumed — families reading names, voices trembling. For once, there were no ads, no slogans. Only silence. Only names.

Jack: “Maybe this is what truth sounds like now — just names.”

Jeeny: “Names are everything. They’re what’s left after politics ends.”

Host: A single tear slipped down her cheek, not from sadness, but from reverence. Jack stood, reaching for the remote, and for a moment, the room went dark — only the light from the memorial beams reflecting in the window.

Jeeny: “Do you think the world will ever learn to remember without using it?”

Jack: “No. But maybe some of us can remember without forgetting why it mattered.”

Host: The city below them was quiet, the rain easing into mist. Two figures stood in the dim light of a newsroom — two witnesses to an era where even remembrance was political.

But for that brief, sacred silence, before the next campaign, before the next performance — they were simply human again. No sides. No slogans. Only light.