I don't like talking unnecessarily, and my communication skills

Host: The recording studio was dim, lit only by the soft amber glow of the mixing console. The walls, padded with dark foam, swallowed sound — even silence had weight here. On one side of the glass sat a microphone, suspended like a fragile secret. On the other, rows of buttons, switches, and sliders blinked quietly, each pulse a heartbeat in an otherwise still room.

Jack sat behind the console, headphones hanging loosely around his neck, the kind of stillness in his eyes that belonged to someone who understood the power of silence. Across from him, Jeeny sat with her hands around a cup of coffee, the steam curling like music that had lost its melody.

The faint hum of an unfinished track played in the background — piano, strings, and a hesitation that sounded almost human.

Jeeny: softly “Pritam Chakraborty once said — ‘I don't like talking unnecessarily, and my communication skills are zilch. I just can't converse with people. Maybe it's because of my stuttering or stammering, but I'm not confident of talking with people. I only talk to very close friends and family.’”

Jack: smiling faintly, eyes still on the console “That sounds familiar. The curse of creators — better at expressing through work than through words.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “It’s strange, isn’t it? The same person who can make thousands feel through music or art… struggles to speak to one person in a room.”

Jack: quietly “That’s because creation doesn’t interrupt you. People do.”

Host: The music looped softly, a melody made of minor chords, delicate but imperfect — like a confession whispered through an instrument instead of a mouth.

Jeeny: watching him closely “You ever feel that way, Jack? That words are just… too fragile to hold what you mean?”

Jack: leaning back, thoughtful “All the time. Language feels clumsy. Like trying to carry water with open hands. You always lose what matters between the fingers.”

Jeeny: “That’s why people like Pritam make music. Notes don’t stutter.”

Jack: quietly “And melodies don’t judge.”

Host: The sound of rain began tapping gently against the studio window — a slow percussion that blended perfectly with the soft piano track. Jeeny turned her gaze toward it, her reflection faintly visible in the glass.

Jeeny: after a long pause “You know, the world worships communication — talk shows, interviews, constant chatter. But there’s something sacred about people who choose silence. Who let their art do the speaking.”

Jack: “Because silence isn’t emptiness. It’s translation. It says what words can’t.”

Jeeny: smiling softly “Like now.”

Jack: chuckling under his breath “Exactly.”

Host: The music faded, leaving just the sound of the rain — steady, honest, unpolished. Jeeny leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her voice gentle but sure.

Jeeny: “I think what Pritam was really saying is that connection doesn’t always need conversation. Some people connect through presence. Through energy. Through honesty that doesn’t need to be spoken.”

Jack: nodding slowly “And maybe that’s what makes them rare. They don’t waste words — so when they finally speak, the world listens.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Or feels.”

Host: The studio lights flickered slightly, casting long shadows across the equipment. Jack pressed a few buttons on the console, restarting the track. A soft, guitar riff joined the piano, simple but alive.

Jack: softly “You know, there’s a kind of bravery in silence. People mistake it for shyness, but it’s really just honesty. Some of us speak better through creation — songs, stories, gestures — because conversation feels like translation, and art feels like truth.”

Jeeny: thoughtfully “That’s what vulnerability really is, isn’t it? The courage to be misunderstood.”

Jack: after a pause “Yeah. To show yourself without explaining yourself.”

Host: The music swelled slightly, the notes intertwining like voices that didn’t need words to agree.

Jeeny: “You know, I used to think confidence meant speaking up. But now I think it means being okay with silence — trusting that who you are doesn’t need to be constantly announced.”

Jack: quietly “That’s what Pritam meant. He wasn’t apologizing for not talking. He was just describing the peace of not pretending.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The world mistakes silence for lack. But sometimes silence is the fullest sound there is.”

Host: The rain softened again, now just a faint murmur — like applause from the sky. Jeeny closed her eyes, letting the sound wash through her.

Jeeny: softly “Do you ever wonder how many people out there feel the same? Full of meaning, but afraid of words?”

Jack: smiling gently “Probably most of them. The difference is — some hide behind noise, and some hide behind creation.”

Jeeny: “And you?”

Jack: glancing at the console, his voice almost a whisper “I record mine.”

Host: The music faded completely now, leaving only silence — that rare, full kind that doesn’t ask to be filled.

Because Pritam Chakraborty was right —
not all voices are meant to be spoken.

Some are meant to be composed.
Some are meant to tremble.
Some are meant to stay quiet until the right soul listens.

In a world obsessed with speech,
there is courage in quiet.
Strength in stillness.
Expression in silence.

And as Jack and Jeeny sat together in that small room,
the rain whispering its own song beyond the glass,
they understood that communication isn’t volume —
it’s vibration.

It’s the way two souls resonate
without needing words to agree.

Because some conversations,
the most honest ones,
are never spoken —
they are felt.