Crying is a kind of communication, and communication is awesome.

Host: The afternoon light bled through the cracked blinds, turning the dust into floating, golden embers. Outside, the street murmured with distant sirens, a faint reminder of the city’s nervous pulse. Inside the small studio apartment, a record player spun quietly — the needle scratching out a soft, broken melody that filled the air with something like nostalgia.

Jack sat by the window, his grey eyes fixed on the world beyond the glass. His hands were clasped, his knuckles pale. Jeeny stood near the sink, holding a half-empty glass of water, her reflection caught in the windowpane beside his. The silence between them felt like a roomful of words neither had dared to say.

Jeeny: “You know what Emma Gonzalez said once? ‘Crying is a kind of communication, and communication is awesome.’”

Jack: “Yeah,” he smirked slightly, “sounds like something you’d cross-stitch on a pillow.”

Host: Jeeny didn’t smile. Her eyes — deep brown, wide with unspoken things — held his reflection like a question that demanded an answer.

Jeeny: “It’s not a joke, Jack. She meant it. Crying — it’s how we tell the truth when words fail. It’s the body speaking the language of the soul.”

Jack: “Or it’s just chemistry. Cortisol, tears, release. Nothing poetic about that. People cry because their nerves are overloaded, not because their souls are writing poems.”

Host: The record skipped for a moment — a tiny hiccup, like the heartbeat of hesitation.

Jeeny: “You always do that — strip the heart out of things to make them easier to understand. But tell me this — why does it move you when someone cries? Why do you feel that knot in your chest when a child weeps, or when you see someone trying to hold it in?”

Jack: “Because I’m human, not heartless. I just don’t glorify it. Crying doesn’t solve problems — it just makes them wetter.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not, but it opens a door. You ever notice how after someone cries, they finally talk? It’s like the storm passes, and suddenly, you can see what was buried underneath. That’s what she meant — communication. Not weakness.”

Host: The rain began to fall outside, soft at first, then heavier — the sky joining in their unspoken argument. The sound filled the space between their voices, rhythmic, insistent, almost like a pulse.

Jack: “I’ve seen people cry, Jeeny. On battlefields, in boardrooms, at funerals. Half the time, it doesn’t change a damn thing. It’s just… human noise. Pain leaking out. Communication? Maybe. But what’s it really saying — ‘I hurt’? Everyone hurts.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s saying, ‘I trust you enough to let you see it.’ That’s the difference. Crying isn’t weakness; it’s consent — emotional consent. A person who cries in front of you is letting you in.”

Host: Jack turned his gaze to her. His jaw was tight, his eyes unreadable. The rain outside blurred the city lights, turning them into trembling halos.

Jack: “Trust is dangerous. You open that door, and someone always walks through it carrying fire.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you’d rather live locked inside your own silence? You’d rather be safe than seen?”

Host: Her voice cracked slightly — a tremor of pain under her calm. Jack looked away, his reflection swallowed by the wet glass.

Jack: “Being seen isn’t always worth the damage. People say they want honesty, but what they really want is comfort. Crying makes them uncomfortable — it reminds them how fragile they are.”

Jeeny: “Or how connected. Think about it, Jack. When the Parkland survivors spoke — when Emma Gonzalez stood in silence, her tears trembling on her face — the world listened. Her pain became everyone’s. That’s communication at its purest — emotion breaking through the noise.”

Host: Jeeny’s words hung in the air, heavy and shining. Outside, the light of a passing car washed through the room, illuminating Jack’s face for a brief, electric second — the tension, the restraint, the ache behind his logic.

Jack: “That’s different. That’s public grief. It has a purpose — politics, movement, change. But private crying? It’s… indulgence.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s practice. Private crying is how we teach ourselves to be human — so we don’t turn cold when the world needs our warmth.”

Host: The rain softened again, a kind of rhythm between them. The record ended, leaving only the sound of the storm and the faint hum of the city outside.

Jack: “You ever think that maybe communication isn’t always awesome? That maybe, some things are better left unsaid — or uncried?”

Jeeny: “And then what? You carry it until it turns to stone? That’s what’s killing people, Jack — this belief that feeling makes you weak. We’re drowning in unspoken pain because everyone’s afraid to look foolish.”

Jack: “Or maybe they’re just tired of crying into the void. You can scream your heart out, and the world keeps scrolling.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But sometimes one person listens. And that’s enough. Communication doesn’t need an audience — it just needs a connection.”

Host: A faint flash of lightning painted the room for a moment — white, clean, fleeting. The thunder followed, distant and slow. Jack ran a hand over his face, sighing.

Jack: “You make it sound like crying is noble. It’s not. It’s… necessary, maybe, but not noble.”

Jeeny: “It’s both. Because it’s truth, Jack. It’s our truest form of honesty — raw, wordless truth. When a child cries, they’re not manipulating. When a mother cries, she’s not performing. They’re expressing something language could never hold.”

Host: The air between them stilled — quiet, charged. Jack leaned back, his eyes glimmering under the half-light. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. For the first time, he seemed unsure.

Jeeny: “When was the last time you cried?”

Jack: After a pause, “Does it matter?”

Jeeny: “It does. Because if you can’t remember, maybe that’s why everything you say sounds like armor.”

Host: The silence stretched. The rain slowed to a drizzle, like the city was catching its breath. Jack stood, walked to the window, and placed his hand against the glass. His reflection looked older, softer somehow.

Jack: “You know… I did cry. Once. When my father died. But I wasn’t crying for him. I was crying because the world kept moving. Because it didn’t stop.”

Jeeny: “And that’s the point. Crying didn’t make you weak, Jack. It made you remember what it feels like to care.”

Host: Jeeny stepped closer, her voice now gentle, barely above the whisper of the rain.

Jeeny: “We communicate not just with words — but with what leaks out when words can’t hold anymore. Tears are just… the body’s way of speaking love and loss at the same time.”

Jack: “And what if no one listens?”

Jeeny: “Then at least you listened to yourself.”

Host: The room was quiet now, but not empty. The air felt different — lighter, honest. Jack turned from the window, his eyes meeting hers. No smirk this time. Just something open, tired, real.

Jack: “Maybe communication is awesome after all.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly, “It always was. You just had to let it hurt a little first.”

Host: Outside, the clouds began to part. The last of the rain glistened on the glass like tiny diamonds. The streetlights flickered back to life, and the music started again, soft and slow. Jack sat down, Jeeny beside him, the city humming its endless lullaby.

The camera would linger on the window, on the tiny trail of water sliding down the glass — a tear, maybe, or just the sky learning to speak. In that fragile moment, two people, and perhaps the world itself, remembered that even sorrow — when shared — becomes a kind of light.