Digital intimacy ruins the appetite for the real thing. So, when

Host: The apartment glowed blue in the light of screens, that artificial twilight that makes night indistinguishable from eternity. Outside, rain traced silent hieroglyphs on the windows, and the city pulsed with the invisible hum of Wi-Fi and loneliness.

The television was still on — a video game paused mid-battle, a frozen explosion lighting the living room with synthetic glory. Jack sat on the couch, controller in hand, motionless. Jeeny stood near the window, her silhouette framed by the pale light of the city. The air between them was thick with quiet tension — the kind of silence that follows when connection has gone missing but neither knows how to call it back.

Jeeny: “Gordon Neufeld once said, ‘Digital intimacy ruins the appetite for the real thing. So, when kids are gaming or even when spouses are gaming, they lose their appetite for genuine intimacy. Kids lose their appetite for getting their intimacy needs, their hunger for significance and attachment, with the family, and it erodes the relationship between them and their parents.’”

Host: Her voice was gentle, but there was an ache in it — not accusation, but mourning. The kind of mourning that comes not from losing something, but from realizing it has been slipping away slowly for years.

Jack didn’t look at her. His eyes stayed fixed on the paused game, its world frozen — vibrant, controlled, perfect.

Jack: “He sounds like someone who’s never lost himself in something that makes sense.”

Jeeny: “You think this makes sense?”

Jack: “More than people do. In here, the rules are clear. The story makes sense. When you fail, you start over. Real life doesn’t give you respawns, Jeeny.”

Host: She turned from the window, her reflection ghosting in the glass, layered over the rain and the city lights.

Jeeny: “That’s the tragedy. You’re choosing loops over living. Neufeld’s right — digital intimacy feels real because it’s safe. Predictable. No mess, no vulnerability. Just dopamine dressed as connection.”

Jack: “And what’s wrong with safe? The real world is brutal. People lie, leave, disappoint. At least here, I can build something without watching it fall apart.”

Jeeny: “But it’s not real, Jack. You’re building castles in code — and starving the part of you that needs touch, presence, chaos.”

Host: Her words cut softly but deep. The blue light from the screen flickered across his face, outlining the weariness in his eyes.

Jack: “You talk about intimacy like it’s easy. But the real thing — it’s unpredictable, raw. Digital connection, at least, doesn’t demand more than I can give.”

Jeeny: “That’s the problem. It doesn’t demand enough.”

Host: The rain intensified, its rhythm echoing like distant applause for an unseen tragedy. The controller in Jack’s hand slipped to the floor with a dull thud.

Jeeny: “You know what I think? We don’t crave games or screens. We crave control. Digital intimacy isn’t addiction — it’s avoidance.”

Jack: “Avoidance of what?”

Jeeny: “Of being seen. Of being known. You can be a hero in a world of pixels because no one there can see your cracks.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, elbows on knees, his voice low.

Jack: “When I was a kid, my father worked nights. My mother was always tired. The only time I felt noticed was when I won a game. The screen applauded me. It gave me what they never did — recognition.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now it’s habit. The applause never stopped — it just became quieter, lonelier.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes softened, her voice trembling slightly.

Jeeny: “That’s what Neufeld meant — the hunger for significance. We all want to feel seen, Jack. But when the screen replaces the eyes of another person, it feeds the hunger without ever nourishing it.”

Jack: “So you’d rather I just shut everything off? Sit in silence with myself?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Sometimes silence is the only real conversation left.”

Host: The screen light flickered, its glow dimming as if reacting to her words. For the first time that night, the room felt human again — imperfect, unfiltered, alive.

Jack: “You make it sound like technology’s evil.”

Jeeny: “It’s not evil. It’s insidious. It promises connection but gives convenience. It mimics love so well we forget to look for the real thing.”

Jack: “You think love is still real?”

Jeeny: “Only if we fight for it.”

Host: Her words hung in the air like music before the final note. Jack rubbed his temples, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.

Jack: “You know, when I’m online — gaming, scrolling, whatever — it feels like I belong. People laugh at the same jokes, play the same missions. But when it’s over… it’s like the world shuts off with the screen.”

Jeeny: “Because it does. Connection built on electricity dies when the power goes out.”

Jack: “So what do we do? Go backward? Pretend we can live without it?”

Jeeny: “No. But we can choose balance. You can touch the digital world — just don’t let it replace the human one.”

Host: She walked toward him, her steps slow, the sound of her boots soft on the carpet. She reached out, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder — a simple, living gesture.

Jeeny: “You don’t have to quit the game, Jack. Just remember to come home from it.”

Jack: “Home.” He said the word like it was foreign, like a language he’d once spoken but forgotten.

Jeeny: “Yes. The kind that breathes, and listens, and looks you in the eye.”

Host: Outside, the rain eased, the sound fading into a tender hush. Jack finally looked at her — really looked — and in that brief moment, the digital light no longer defined him.

Jack: “You know what scares me, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “That maybe the real world forgot how to look back.”

Jeeny: “Then we remind it. One small, genuine connection at a time.”

Host: The TV screen dimmed to black, the reflection of their faces visible — two silhouettes illuminated not by pixels, but by the fragile light of presence.

Jack: “You really think it’s that simple?”

Jeeny: “No. But it’s the only kind of simple that matters.”

Host: The camera would drift slowly back — through the dim apartment, past the silent console, past the soft rhythm of their breathing — until only the window remained, framing the quiet city outside. The rain had stopped, leaving the glass streaked with faint traces of where it had been — just like memory, just like touch.

Host: And as the light shifted from blue to warm gold, one truth flickered like a heartbeat beneath the silence:

that digital intimacy can mimic connection,
but only the real touch, the real gaze, the real voice —
can feed the soul hungry to be seen.