Everybody hangs out with everybody, which is very strange for a

Host: The sunset washed the city in hues of gold and amber, the skyscrapers glinting like shards of light suspended in time. The café terrace buzzed softly with laughter and music, the scent of coffee and rain mingling in the evening air. It was the kind of night that made people forget the weight of their days — just for a little while.

Jack sat on the balcony rail, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers, its smoke curling like lazy ghosts into the sky. Jeeny leaned against the table, her eyes bright, her smile real, the way it always was when she felt the world open. Below them, a group of young actors from a local theatre troupe filled the street corner with easy laughter — no pretense, no hierarchy. Just the raw joy of togetherness.

Jeeny: “Look at them, Jack. Isn’t it beautiful? They actually like each other. You can see it. No competition, no ego — just… people being people.”

Jack: (exhaling smoke) “Yeah. For now.”

Host: The light flickered against Jack’s face, cutting his features in half-shadow, the smile on his lips too small to be called joy, too tired to be called cynicism.

Jeeny: “You always have to find the shadow, don’t you? Can’t you just let it be something good?”

Jack: “It is good — until it isn’t. Give them a few more months. Someone will get a bigger role, someone will get left out, and then the whole thing falls apart. You’ve seen it happen. Every ‘family’ in this business eventually finds its fracture.”

Host: A gust of wind swept through the terrace, rattling the glasses on the table. The sound was soft but deliberate, like an unseen reminder of how fragile harmony really is.

Jeeny: “But maybe that’s why what Lizzy Caplan said is so rare — because it means something when people don’t fall apart. When they choose to stay kind, even in a world that teaches you to claw for your own survival.”

Jack: “You think kindness survives in this business? Please. Hollywood runs on vanity, not virtue. You ever see what happens behind the camera? The smiles, the hugs, the backslaps — all PR choreography. Nobody’s that pure.”

Jeeny: “You’re confusing strategy with connection, Jack. Just because people are smart about their careers doesn’t mean they can’t care about each other.”

Host: The evening air grew thicker, the sounds of traffic fading under a street musician’s song drifting up from below — a soft, nostalgic melody that made the world seem briefly uncomplicated.

Jack: “You want to believe in friendship in an industry built on self-promotion? Fine. But don’t call it common. It’s an anomaly — a glitch in human behavior. Lizzy Caplan just got lucky with her cast. Give it a year, and half of them won’t even text each other back.”

Jeeny: (leaning closer) “Maybe she got lucky — or maybe she helped make it happen. You ever think about that? That sometimes the tone of a group starts with someone deciding to stay decent?”

Jack: “So what, decency is contagious now?”

Jeeny: “It can be. You’ve just forgotten what that feels like.”

Host: Jack’s eyes flickered, the smoke from his cigarette curling into the air like thoughts he didn’t want to admit. The streetlight caught the faint tremor in his jaw, the muscle tightening as he looked down at the young group still laughing beneath them.

Jack: “You know, I used to have a group like that. Back when I was working in advertising. We thought we were unstoppable. Late nights, bad coffee, shared dreams. We were gonna ‘change the game.’ Then one of us got promoted, and suddenly it was competition — not camaraderie. The meetings turned cold. The laughter died out. The same people who once celebrated together started fighting for scraps.”

Jeeny: “That’s not friendship dying, Jack. That’s fear taking over. The system doesn’t kill kindness — it just tempts people to trade it for security.”

Jack: “And most do.”

Jeeny: “But not all. That’s the point. When someone like Caplan says, ‘Everybody really likes everybody else,’ it’s not naïve. It’s revolutionary.”

Host: The word hung in the air — revolutionary — like a spark that refused to fade. The sky had turned indigo, and the first few stars pierced the city’s veil of light pollution, stubborn and small, but there.

Jack: “You really think simple friendship is a revolution?”

Jeeny: “In a world that profits off division? Yes. It’s rebellion in its gentlest form.”

Jack: “You talk like friendship’s an act of resistance.”

Jeeny: “It is. Think about it — in industries that thrive on ego, what could be more radical than people choosing humility? In places where everyone’s told to compete, what could be braver than choosing community?”

Host: Jack turned away from her then, his reflection caught in the window glass, eyes weary, yet faintly alive. He didn’t speak for a moment, and in the silence, the city hummed with quiet electricity.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe that’s why it feels so rare — because it’s too fragile. One wrong word, one success story, and it’s gone. It’s like… trying to hold sunlight in your hand.”

Jeeny: “But it still warms you while you hold it.”

Jack: (smirking) “You and your metaphors.”

Jeeny: “They’re all I’ve got left to fight your cynicism.”

Host: The waiter passed by, leaving behind a faint trace of vanilla smoke and clinking glass. The young actors below had begun a new game, one of them leaping onto a bench to recite lines dramatically, the others cheering. Their voices rose into the night, untamed, sincere.

Jeeny: “Look at them, Jack. They’re living proof that connection isn’t impossible — just rare enough to be sacred.”

Jack: “And fleeting enough to hurt when it ends.”

Jeeny: “But still worth it.”

Host: The light from the café’s lanterns caught Jeeny’s hair, turning it a deep shade of copper. Jack’s smoke drifted toward her, curling and breaking apart before it ever reached. He looked at her then — really looked — as if realizing that her faith in humanity wasn’t childish, but chosen, deliberate.

Jack: “You really believe people can like each other in a world built to make them rivals?”

Jeeny: “I don’t just believe it. I see it. Every time someone claps for a friend who got the role they wanted. Every time a group stays late to help one another, not because they have to, but because they care. It’s there, Jack. It’s always been there — under the noise.”

Host: The music from the street faded into a slow jazz rhythm, soft as a sigh. The rain began again, light and unthreatening, like a gentle memory. The laughter below didn’t stop. It mixed with the patter of the rain and the pulse of the city — a living symphony of imperfection and grace.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what she meant. That for once, the business didn’t matter. That for once, they were just… people.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And maybe that’s the secret — to remember that no matter how high the ladder, we’re still all standing on the same earth.”

Host: Jack nodded slowly, his expression softening, his eyes tracing the glow of the café lights as they danced against the wet pavement. The storm clouds were pulling apart, revealing a strip of moonlight stretching like a quiet promise across the city.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… if friendship really is rebellion, maybe it’s the only rebellion left that doesn’t destroy something.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Maybe it’s the only one that creates.”

Host: The rain stopped. The last echoes of laughter below turned into quiet conversation, the kind that only happens between those who truly trust each other. Jack stubbed out his cigarette, the smoke curling away like the last note of a forgotten song.

And for a moment — brief, fragile, human — they both sat in silence, watching the city breathe.
Not as cynic and idealist.
Not as man and woman.
But simply, as two people — still believing, against all odds, that in a world obsessed with self, it was still possible to really, really like everybody else.