Climate change isn't something people get to choose to believe or

Host: The desert air shimmered with heat — the kind that blurs the horizon and makes the sky seem alive. The sun was sinking behind a ridge of wind turbines, their slow, endless rotations cutting through the golden haze like time made visible. A dry wind whispered across the cracked earth, carrying the faint scent of sage and distant rain that would never come.

Host: Jack stood near the edge of a dried-up creek bed, boots crunching against the brittle ground. His shirt was stained with dust; his eyes squinted against the glare. Jeeny sat on the hood of the truck, her hair tied back, a bottle of water in one hand and her camera in the other — her lens pointed not at him, but at the earth itself.

Jeeny: “Matt Gaetz once said, ‘Climate change isn’t something people get to choose to believe or not: it’s happening.’”

Jack: (gruffly) “Strange to hear a politician say something that real.”

Jeeny: “Truth’s starting to sweat through the cracks. Even the deniers are running out of ice.”

Jack: (kicks the dirt) “Yeah, well, some people won’t believe the fire’s coming till they’re standing in it.”

Jeeny: “By then, there’s nothing left to save.”

Host: The wind picked up, swirling loose sand around their feet. In the distance, a tumbleweed crossed the cracked road — an image so cliché it hurt, but it fit too well.

Jack: “You think people will ever really wake up?”

Jeeny: “They already are. But waking up’s not enough if you keep lying back down.”

Jack: “You sound like an activist again.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like a man who’s tired of pretending he can’t do anything.”

Jack: “I’m not pretending. I’m surviving. It’s different.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s not. It’s surrender.”

Host: She raised the camera and snapped a photo — click. The sound was small, but sharp against the vast quiet. The shutter caught Jack mid-frown, the sky burning orange behind him.

Jack: “You taking pictures of failure now?”

Jeeny: “No. Of consequence.”

Jack: “Big difference.”

Jeeny: “Huge. Failure’s what we did. Consequence is what we live.”

Host: The light began to fade, and the turbines turned slower, their white blades catching the last strokes of daylight. Somewhere, a hawk wheeled silently above the emptiness.

Jack: “You know, I used to think climate change was just politics. Talking points. Then the floods hit my brother’s town. Six feet of water in his living room. He called me while sitting on his roof, watching his car float away.”

Jeeny: “And what did you tell him?”

Jack: “Nothing. What could I say? The sky doesn’t take apologies.”

Host: Jeeny lowered the camera, her expression softening.

Jeeny: “We always think it’s someone else’s story — until the river shows up at our door.”

Jack: “Or until the rain stops coming at all.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why Gaetz is right. Belief doesn’t decide truth. The atmosphere doesn’t care about opinion polls.”

Jack: “You really think we still have time?”

Jeeny: “Time’s a luxury. Responsibility isn’t.”

Host: The sun sank lower, painting the desert in tones of copper and blood. The heat still radiated from the ground, relentless even as night approached.

Jack: “You ever feel like shouting? Like screaming until someone listens?”

Jeeny: “Every day. But screaming burns energy. So I build instead. Gardens, conversations, photographs — proof that we can still choose creation over collapse.”

Jack: “You think that makes a difference?”

Jeeny: “It’s the only thing that ever has.”

Host: She looked out across the desert — the endless sprawl of emptiness that once might have been a river. The light shimmered faintly on a distant solar farm.

Jeeny: “You know, I read once that climate change isn’t about saving the planet. The planet will be fine. It’s about saving us from ourselves.”

Jack: “Yeah. Earth doesn’t die — it just resets. We’re the temporary tenants.”

Jeeny: “And the rent’s coming due.”

Host: A long silence stretched between them, the kind that feels like truth settling in. The last of the sunlight faded, leaving only the twilight blue of an oncoming night.

Jack: “You think people could change if they really understood?”

Jeeny: “They already understand. They just don’t want to lose convenience disguised as comfort.”

Jack: “So what’s left to do?”

Jeeny: “Live differently. Refuse apathy. Remind people that every small action is a vote for the future.”

Jack: “That sounds noble. But the world runs on people who don’t care.”

Jeeny: “Then caring becomes rebellion.”

Host: The first stars began to appear, faint pinpricks in the vast dark. The air cooled, and the sound of the turbines became a slow, steady heartbeat in the distance.

Jack: “You ever think we’re too small to matter?”

Jeeny: “We are. And that’s exactly why we matter. Small things endure. Big things collapse.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You always did have faith in the cracks of the world.”

Jeeny: “Because that’s where light gets in — and maybe where change starts.”

Host: They stood there for a long moment, the desert quiet around them, the world both beautiful and wounded.

Host: Jack looked at her — really looked — and there was something in his eyes that wasn’t despair, but defiance.

Jack: “Alright. Let’s plant something then. Even here.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “That’s the spirit. Grow defiance in the dust.”

Host: They began to walk back toward the truck. Behind them, the turbines turned, slow and constant — like the patient breath of the planet itself.

Host: And in that vast, fading light, Matt Gaetz’s words no longer felt like politics, but prophecy — that climate change isn’t a debate, but a reckoning.

Host: The earth was speaking. And at last, beneath the bruised and beautiful sky, two small human hearts were ready to listen.