I absolutely do not believe in the science of man-caused climate

Host: The evening sky hung heavy with smoke and orange light, as if the sun itself were burning from exhaustion. Beyond the cracked windows of an old diner by the freeway, a few cars passed like ghosts through the rising dust. Inside, the air smelled of coffee, metal, and rain-soaked asphalt. The neon sign outside blinked unevenly, casting pulses of red light across the table where Jack and Jeeny sat — two silhouettes divided by a single cup of cooling coffee.

Jack’s grey eyes reflected the faint glow of the sign, unmoved, his jawline set like stone. Jeeny’s fingers trembled slightly on the cup’s rim, her dark hair damp from the rain, her expression both gentle and furious — like someone holding back a storm.

Jeeny: “You really believe that, Jack? That man hasn’t changed the climate? That we’re just… spectators to all this?”

Jack: “I believe what the evidence truly shows, Jeeny. Not what’s been packaged, sold, and politicized. The climate has always changed — ice ages, warm periods, long before a single factory existed. The planet doesn’t revolve around our ego.”

Host: The lights from the passing trucks flickered across their faces, the contrast between them as sharp as light and shadow.

Jeeny: “Ego? You think caring about the Earth is ego? The Arctic is melting, forests are burning, the oceans are rising. We’ve filled the air with carbon like a smoker fills his lungs — and you call it ego to say we should stop?”

Jack: “I call it blind faith. You think we’re that powerful? That humanity can control the climate, the winds, the oceans? You forget how small we are, Jeeny. One volcano can spew more carbon in a week than all our cars combined.”

Jeeny: “And yet you forget how much we’ve done. The Industrial Revolution, the smog in London, the oil spills, the cities built on plastic and fumes. You think that leaves no mark?”

Host: The rain began again — slow, deliberate, each drop echoing against the windowpane.

Jack took a slow sip of his coffee, his voice low, almost tired.

Jack: “You want to believe we can fix it, because it gives you purpose. But maybe — just maybe — we can’t fix what we didn’t break. Maybe the Earth is just doing what it always does: change. And we’re just… temporary guests.”

Jeeny: “That’s such a convenient lie, Jack. It makes it easier to do nothing. To keep driving, keep consuming, keep pretending that it’s all out of our hands. But we’ve seen it — scientists, satellite data, the coral reefs dying. You can’t dismiss that as natural.”

Jack: “Science can be wrong, Jeeny. It’s been wrong before. They once believed the Earth was the center of the universe. They once believed smoking was harmless. Consensus doesn’t mean truth.”

Jeeny: “Then what’s your truth, Jack? That the billions of tons of CO₂ we pour into the sky every year are just… illusions? That the floods in Pakistan, the wildfires in California, the droughts in Africa — they’re just coincidences?”

Host: Her voice trembled, not with fear, but with anger and grief. The rain blurred the world outside, turning the city lights into smears of color — a planet seen through tears.

Jack leaned forward, his eyes sharp.

Jack: “Coincidences? No. But neither are they proof. Climate’s always been chaotic. You’re seeing patterns because you want to see meaning. That’s what humans do — we fear randomness. So we invent villains: industries, governments, humans. But maybe the universe isn’t out to get us. Maybe it’s just… indifferent.”

Jeeny: “Indifferent?” (She laughed softly, bitterly.) “So when people in Bangladesh lose their homes to floods, when farmers in Kenya can’t grow food anymore — you think the Earth is indifferent? Maybe it is. But should we be?”

Host: Her words struck like lightning — sudden, fierce, and full of truth. Jack’s hand stilled on his cup. For a moment, the air between them was thick, like steam before a storm breaks.

Jack: “I’m not saying we should do nothing. I’m saying we should know what we’re doing before we burn down economies chasing a theory. People still need jobs, heat, light. You think the man in Detroit who lost his job to green policy gives a damn about carbon footprints?”

Jeeny: “And you think the child breathing in toxic air in Delhi does? That’s the price of your so-called ‘balance’? You talk about the poor, but it’s the poor who suffer most from what we’ve done to the planet.”

Host: A truck horn roared outside, its echo long and hollow, like a warning. The neon light flickered again, painting them in crimson and shadow — two sides of the same coin, both burning for what they believed was truth.

Jeeny’s eyes softened, though her voice remained steady.

Jeeny: “You know, in Venice, the floods are so frequent now that people build raised platforms to walk through the streets. They call it ‘acqua alta’ — the high water. It’s not just the sea rising, Jack. It’s the past trying to warn us.”

Jack: “Or it’s just Venice being what it’s always been — a city built on water. You can romanticize it, Jeeny, but don’t mistake poetry for proof.”

Jeeny: “Then look at the fires in Australia, the temperature records breaking year after year. How many signs do you need before you admit we’ve gone too far?”

Jack: “And how many predictions have failed, Jeeny? How many times have they said, ‘By 2020, this will happen,’ and it didn’t? You want to save the world, but first maybe you should understand it.”

Host: The tension broke then — not with anger, but with a deep, aching silence. The rain had stopped, and the clouds began to thin, revealing a few faint stars like scattered truths across a dark sky.

Jeeny looked down, her voice a whisper.

Jeeny: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the Earth doesn’t need us to save it. Maybe it’s we who need saving from ourselves.”

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe.”

Host: Jack’s fingers traced the edge of his cup, as if trying to find comfort in something solid.

Jack: “I don’t deny the damage we’ve done. I just… don’t believe in absolutes. I’ve seen too many lies dressed as truth. I want proof, not faith.”

Jeeny: “And I’ve seen too much proof to still need faith. But maybe that’s the difference, Jack — you look for certainty, I look for meaning. You want the world to make sense, and I just want it to survive.”

Host: Outside, a thin beam of moonlight slipped through the clouds, falling across their table. The steam from the coffee rose between them — a small, fragile bridge made of warmth and breath.

Jeeny: “Do you ever wonder, Jack… what if we’re wrong? What if doing nothing destroys everything?”

Jack: “And what if we’re wrong the other way? What if we sacrifice everything — our industries, our freedom, our people — chasing a phantom?”

Jeeny: “Then we’ll at least have tried. Isn’t that worth something?”

Host: Jack’s eyes softened, the sharp steel in them dulled by something like regret. He nodded slowly.

Jack: “Maybe trying is all we can do.”

Jeeny smiled faintly — not in victory, but in understanding.

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s enough — not belief, not denial — just… care.”

Host: The camera pulls back. The rain has ceased. The street glistens under streetlights, each puddle holding a small reflection of the sky. Inside the diner, two figures sit quietly, the argument burned out, leaving only the embers of shared humility.

The Earth, indifferent or alive, keeps turning — as it always has. But tonight, for a brief moment, two souls looked up and saw the same moon, and both believed — not in science, not in certainty — but in the fragile, beautiful act of trying.