I hate the amount of communication, the obligation that you have

Host: The subway car rattled through the underground like a metal heart, pulsing through veins of darkness and fluorescent light. The air was thick with static, the low hum of half-awake commuters, and the faint glow of a hundred screens lighting up tired faces. The world no longer dreamed — it scrolled.

Jack sat near the window, his grey eyes fixed on the reflection of his own face, ghosted against the tunnel’s blur. His phone buzzed every few seconds — notifications, messages, emails, news alerts — each one a tiny demand.

Across from him, Jeeny sat quietly, her hair loose, her hands clasped around a book — a physical one, with paper, not pixels. Her expression was calm, her posture almost serene — the stillness of someone who had learned to step outside the noise.

The train screeched to a halt. Somewhere above, the city pulsed with invisible chatter.

Jeeny looked up, eyes meeting Jack’s through the flicker of the overhead light.

Jeeny: “Lucas Till said something once. ‘I hate the amount of communication, the obligation that you have just by owning a phone.’”

Jack: snorts softly “He’s right. This little device —” he holds up his phone, screen glowing like a small, merciless sun “— it’s a leash disguised as freedom.”

Host: The light above them flickered again, cutting the world into alternating slices of dark and white. The hum of the tunnel filled the pause between their words, a mechanical heartbeat.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? We used to long for connection. Now we hide from it.”

Jack: leans back, weary “Because it’s not connection anymore. It’s maintenance. People don’t reach out to talk — they reach out to check in. To make sure you’re still performing the illusion of being okay.”

Jeeny: “And if you don’t reply fast enough, they take it personally. As if silence were a crime.”

Jack: laughs bitterly “Silence is a crime now. The digital world punishes anyone who pauses. The moment you stop responding, you disappear from the algorithm — and from people’s memories.”

Host: The train lurched forward again, lights flickering, the metallic walls echoing with the rhythm of motion. A young woman nearby scrolled through messages with mechanical precision, her thumb moving faster than her eyes. A man across the aisle argued with someone through wireless earbuds, his voice low but sharp.

It was a chorus of constant communication — a symphony of exhaustion.

Jeeny: “Do you remember when phones were just tools? When they didn’t own us?”

Jack: smiles faintly “Yeah. Back when ‘unreachable’ wasn’t a synonym for rude.”

Jeeny: “Now you can’t disappear without apologizing for it.”

Jack: “Because everyone feels entitled to access you. Every ping, every notification, it’s like another hand tugging at your sleeve. The price of being reachable is that you’re never truly alone.”

Host: A pause settled — thick, almost sacred. The sound of the tracks grew distant for a moment, as though the whole train itself was listening.

Jeeny: “You know what I think, Jack? The phone didn’t make us connected. It made us accountable — to everyone except ourselves.”

Jack: nods slowly, eyes distant “It’s true. We live in a world where you can’t even grieve privately. The second something happens, you’re expected to post about it, share it, hashtag it — or it’s like it never existed.”

Jeeny: “We don’t live our lives anymore; we document them. Even our quiet moments have become content.”

Jack: half-smiling, half-aching “I read somewhere that solitude used to be a luxury. Now it’s rebellion.”

Jeeny: “A quiet rebellion. The kind that scares people. Because if you’re not online, they can’t measure you.”

Host: The train slowed again, screeching against the tracks as if resisting the next stop. The lights dimmed to a deep yellow glow. Jeeny’s face looked softer now — reflective, sad. Jack turned off his phone and set it on the seat beside him, its black screen staring up like a silent witness.

Jack: “I used to think communication was progress. Now it feels like noise disguised as necessity.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s both. We built machines to connect us, but all they’ve done is expose how lonely we really are.”

Jack: “Lonely — and performative. Even loneliness has to be curated now.”

Jeeny: smiles faintly, bittersweet “You ever notice people don’t look at sunsets anymore? They photograph them to prove they were there.”

Jack: “Yeah. As if beauty doesn’t exist until it’s shared.”

Host: The train stopped again. A few passengers got off, others stepped in — faces lit by screens, conversations half-spoken into the air. The digital hum never stopped; it only changed hands.

Jeeny looked out the window — the tunnel walls flashing by like frames of a film, each moment recorded, fleeting.

Jeeny: “You think there’s any way back, Jack? To a world where people spoke to listen, not to perform?”

Jack: quietly “No. But maybe we can find a way forward — by remembering what silence sounds like.”

Host: She closed her book, eyes steady on him. The train emerged from the tunnel, and light spilled suddenly into the car — golden, almost holy. The city stretched wide outside the window: billboards, screens, crowds, all moving, talking, glowing. A civilization wired together but emotionally apart.

Jack picked up his phone, thumb hovering over the screen — then, slowly, he turned it off again and slipped it into his pocket.

Jeeny: “That’s rare, you know. Someone choosing to be unreachable.”

Jack: shrugs “Maybe that’s the only real connection left — with the silence we’ve been running from.”

Host: The train rolled on. The light of morning began to pierce the city — through skyscrapers, through glass, through every transparent wall humans had built to hide behind. The screens glowed like miniature suns, demanding worship.

But there, in that moment, two people sat quietly in defiance — no phones, no notifications, no need to prove their existence.

Jeeny’s head leaned against the window, the city reflected in her eyes — alive, overwhelming, beautiful, and tragic.

Jack watched the skyline roll by. His reflection — and hers — blended in the glass.

And for the first time in a long while, the silence wasn’t empty.

It was freedom.

Because, as Lucas Till said, owning a phone makes communication an obligation —
but turning it off, even for a moment, makes being human a choice.