Feeling we have to be constantly updated about the lives of our

Host: The night pressed against the glass windows of a small café tucked between silent city streets. Rain dripped from the awning in steady rhythm, echoing like a heartbeat against the lonely pavement. Inside, the air hummed with the faint sound of an old jazz record, its melancholy tune curling like smoke around the dim lights.

Jack sat by the window, his grey eyes reflecting the flicker of passing headlights. His hands, strong but restless, tapped against his cup — a rhythm as impatient as his thoughts.

Jeeny arrived a few minutes later, her hair damp from the rain, her brown eyes soft yet burdened by something unspoken. She carried a phone in her hand, its screen glowing faintly, illuminating her face like a modern-day lantern of distraction.

The air between them was thick with the kind of tension that comes from the unending buzz of being “connected.”

Jeeny: “I saw your post today… you deleted your account again.”

Jack: (smirks) “Yeah. I figured I’d give myself the rare gift of silence.”

Host: Jeeny placed her phone face down, as though trying to bury it. Outside, the rain began to soften, but inside, the unease only deepened.

Jeeny: “You think disconnecting makes you free? We’re human, Jack. We need to share, to know, to feel part of something.”

Jack: “Do we? Or do we just crave attention dressed up as connection? Derren Brown once said — ‘Feeling we have to be constantly updated about the lives of our friends… leads to frustration, anger, and jealousy more than anything else.’ He’s right. We’ve become addicts, Jeeny. Addicts of each other’s curated happiness.”

Host: The words landed like raindrops on a cracked mirror — reflecting, distorting, breaking.

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who’s given up on people.”

Jack: “No. I’ve given up on the illusion of people. You scroll through hundreds of photos, and still feel alone. You know why? Because we’ve traded real laughter for emojis, presence for posts.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound like we’re all lost souls staring into a void.”

Jack: “Aren’t we?” (leans forward) “When was the last time you spoke to someone without checking your phone? Without thinking how that moment would look online?”

Host: Jeeny’s fingers twitched, inching toward her phone as if it had gravity. She stopped herself, exhaled, and looked up. Her eyes softened but trembled with defiance.

Jeeny: “You think sharing ruins authenticity. But what if it’s the opposite? What if sharing is how we remember we’re not alone? Look at the people who used social media to find help, to raise voices, to build movements. During the Arab Spring — those posts were more than vanity. They were freedom.”

Jack: (nods slightly) “Freedom? Or a different kind of control? Every movement that begins in freedom gets monetized, tracked, twisted into data. Every like is a vote for your personality to be measured.”

Jeeny: “But that’s not the fault of the people. That’s the system.”

Jack: “And yet people keep feeding it. Like moths to light. We complain, but we still post — because deep down, we’d rather be seen than safe.”

Host: A pause fell, long enough for the sound of rain to return. The jazz record had ended, leaving only the soft hum of electric light.

Jeeny: “You sound… tired.”

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe I am. Maybe I’m just tired of pretending that knowing what everyone had for breakfast makes life meaningful.”

Host: Jeeny smiled faintly, though her eyes carried a weight. She took a sip of her coffee, now cold, but it gave her a moment to think — to choose her next battle carefully.

Jeeny: “Do you remember when we were kids? We’d write letters. Real ones. And we’d wait days — sometimes weeks — for a reply. But when it came… it meant something. You’d read it again and again. Maybe that’s what we’ve lost — not connection, but patience.”

Jack: “And patience is dead in the age of notifications.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we resurrect it — by being intentional, by using the same tools differently. You call it illusion, I call it evolution. Every tool has a shadow, but also a chance for light.”

Host: The streetlights flickered outside. A couple passed by, laughing, their faces briefly illuminated by the café’s glow — a small snapshot of what looked like happiness, or something close enough.

Jack: “You always find the poetry in it.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s there. Even in this — even in the noise.”

Jack: “You really believe that scrolling through endless faces brings us closer?”

Jeeny: “Not the scrolling — the stories. When my friend lost her husband, it was a post — one post — that brought her old friends back to her. They came, Jack. They came because they saw. The screen didn’t kill empathy; it reminded them of it.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, but something in his expression softened — not quite surrender, but the recognition of a truth he didn’t want to admit.

Jack: “And yet, for every one of those moments, there are a hundred filled with envy. The ‘perfect lives,’ the beach photos, the success stories. You start comparing — silently, subconsciously — until you hate yourself for not being them. That’s what Derren Brown was warning about. The illusion of connection breeding discontent.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the problem isn’t connection — it’s comparison. The same tool that lets us share can also chain us. But it’s still our choice which side we stand on.”

Host: The rain stopped. The silence grew heavier than the sound had been. Jack looked out at the wet pavement, the reflection of neon lights like bleeding colors across water.

Jack: “You think choice is that simple? You think people can just… stop scrolling, stop comparing, stop needing validation?”

Jeeny: “Not easily. But awareness is a start. You turned your phone off tonight — that’s awareness. Maybe that’s how it begins — not by rejecting the world, but by seeing it clearly.”

Jack: (sighs) “You make it sound like redemption.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. We’re not lost because we share. We’re lost when we forget why we share.”

Host: Jack’s eyes lifted to meet hers — a rare moment of stillness. The faint hum of the café fridge filled the space where words had run out.

Jack: “So what do we do, Jeeny? Keep living through pixels and hope it means something?”

Jeeny: “No. We live, Jack. And if we share — we share what’s real. The ugly, the lonely, the messy, the human. Not to be seen, but to be understood.”

Host: Jack leaned back, the tension easing from his shoulders. His eyes traced the reflection of Jeeny in the window — faint, but warm, like a candle against the cold city night.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s not the medium that’s sick. It’s us. But maybe we can heal — one honest post at a time.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Honesty — not highlight reels.”

Host: Outside, the rain began again — softly, gently, as if the world itself were breathing a little easier.

Jack: “You know what? I think I’ll keep my account deleted a bit longer. Maybe I’ll send you a letter instead.”

Jeeny: (laughs) “Paper and ink? You might just start a revolution.”

Host: The two laughed, their voices mingling with the sound of the rain and the low hum of streetlights. The camera of the moment pulled back, showing two souls framed in light and shadow — a portrait of humanity, caught between connection and solitude.

As the café lights dimmed, the world outside blurred into motion — cars, people, screens — all chasing some form of being seen. But inside that small café, something else had been found: a brief, quiet understanding that connection doesn’t live in pixels — it breathes in presence.

The rain whispered its last notes on the glass, and in that soft silence, truth lingered —
that to be known is not to be watched,
and to be connected is not to be constantly seen.