I like to write about the solitary things people do. Humans seem

Host: The sky over the harbor was a bruised kind of grey, the color of old film and forgotten letters. The sea below moved without hurry, folding in on itself, restless yet restrained — like something ancient that had learned patience.

A small café sat at the edge of the pier, its windows fogged, its tables empty except for one. There, by the window, Jack sat with a notebook open before him, a faint trace of steam rising from his untouched coffee. The light caught his face, half in shadow, half in a fragile glow that made him look both alive and distant, like a man rehearsing solitude.

Across from him, Jeeny stirred her tea absently, her eyes following the rhythm of the waves. She wasn’t talking — not yet. The silence between them was comfortable, full, a silence that had the texture of thought.

Then she spoke, softly, like she was letting a secret drift into the air.

"I like to write about the solitary things people do. Humans seem to function best when they're alone." — Thomas McGuane.

The words floated there, and for a while, even the sea seemed to listen.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) You ever notice how peace and loneliness can look almost identical?

Jack: (looks up) Until one of them starts to hurt.

Jeeny: (nods) Yeah. It’s a fine line — the one between solitude and isolation. I think McGuane saw that. He wasn’t praising loneliness. He was describing the rhythm of being alone.

Jack: (leans back, thoughtful) Or maybe he was admitting what we all secretly know — that we’re clearest when we’re by ourselves. The noise fades, the expectations dissolve.

Jeeny: (gently) But so does warmth, Jack. The kind you don’t realize you need until it’s gone.

Host: A gull cried outside, its sound stretching across the water, haunting and brief. Jack’s fingers traced the edge of his cup, as if the heat there could anchor him to something still alive.

Jack: You know, I think solitude’s become a luxury now. Everyone’s terrified of silence. People fill every gap with screens, notifications, voices that aren’t even real.

Jeeny: (softly) Maybe that’s because silence reminds us how small we are. When there’s no noise, you can hear your thoughts — and not all of them are kind.

Jack: (grins faintly) Maybe that’s why people call solitude brave. It’s not for saints. It’s for people willing to sit with the worst parts of themselves until they stop biting.

Jeeny: (smiles) You say that like you’ve tried it.

Jack: (quietly) I live it.

Host: The rain began to fall outside, soft and slow, sliding down the windowpane like tears too tired to finish their descent. The café owner wiped down the counter in silence, pretending not to listen — though even silence had a way of eavesdropping tonight.

Jeeny: McGuane said humans function best alone — but I wonder if he meant it literally. Maybe he meant that solitude is where we find clarity. You can’t really connect with others unless you’ve learned to stand with yourself first.

Jack: (nods) That’s true. You can’t offer what you don’t have. Most people confuse merging with loving — they think losing themselves is intimacy.

Jeeny: (frowning slightly) You say that like love is a kind of failure.

Jack: (shrugs) Sometimes it is. We call it connection, but it’s often just distraction dressed nicely. Two people drowning, calling it swimming.

Jeeny: (sharply) And what’s your alternative, Jack? To live your whole life on the shore, watching the water?

Host: The light from outside flickered as a boat passed, its lanterns glowing briefly across the glass — a moving reflection that seemed to echo the tension now sitting between them.

Jack: (after a pause) I think solitude’s where we build the muscle for meaning. Everything else — love, art, empathy — it all starts there.

Jeeny: (quietly) And ends there too, doesn’t it?

Jack: Maybe. Every person dies alone, Jeeny. That’s not tragic. It’s just truth.

Jeeny: (leans forward) Truth doesn’t mean comfort. And solitude — real solitude — can turn cruel. I’ve seen it eat people alive.

Jack: (nods slowly) Because they mistake it for punishment. But solitude isn’t punishment unless you’ve filled your silence with ghosts.

Host: A flash of lightning streaked across the sky, briefly illuminating their faces — hers full of feeling, his marked by a quiet stubborn peace. The rain quickened, the world outside reduced to the sound of its own heartbeat.

Jeeny: (softly) When I was younger, I used to write in coffee shops like this. I’d watch people — couples, friends, strangers — and I thought I was observing life. But I wasn’t. I was hiding from it.

Jack: (smiles faintly) That’s still observation. Maybe even the truest kind. Writers are the ghosts of the living world.

Jeeny: (shakes her head) No, Jack. Ghosts don’t feel. We do. That’s the difference.

Jack: (after a moment) Maybe that’s what McGuane meant — solitude isn’t detachment. It’s awareness. It’s seeing clearly because no one else’s reflection is in the glass.

Host: The rain turned into a fine mist, softening everything it touched. The window blurred, the lights outside bending into halos. The world looked distant now — distant, but strangely kind.

Jeeny: (thoughtful) You know, when he says “humans seem to function best when they’re alone,” it almost sounds mechanical. Like solitude is a system tune-up.

Jack: (grins) Maybe it is. You unplug from the noise, let the machine breathe, reboot the soul.

Jeeny: (smiling) You make solitude sound like maintenance.

Jack: It is. Every connection runs on solitude the way a heart runs on rest. If you never stop to listen, the engine burns out.

Jeeny: (nodding slowly) Maybe that’s why people chase crowds — because silence feels like the sound of their own exhaustion.

Jack: (quietly) And yet, it’s the only place you learn to listen to what’s real.

Host: The clock on the café wall ticked once, loud and clear, like punctuation in their conversation. Outside, the streetlamps flickered on one by one, small islands of light in the fog.

Jeeny: (softly) Do you think solitude makes people better — or just more honest?

Jack: (leans back) Both. Better, because they’re honest. Honesty hurts, but it purifies. Alone, there’s no one left to lie to.

Jeeny: (after a pause) That’s terrifying.

Jack: (nods) It should be. That’s why most people never do it.

Jeeny: (smiles sadly) You sound like solitude’s biggest advocate.

Jack: (shrugs) It’s my oldest friend. Never leaves, never lies, never demands.

Jeeny: (gently) But it never hugs back, either.

Host: A long silence followed. Not cold — just real. The kind of silence that stretches but doesn’t break. The kind of silence that feels like understanding.

Jack: (finally) Maybe that’s the paradox. We need solitude to learn how to love — but we need love to survive solitude.

Jeeny: (softly) Like breathing in and out. One without the other, and the body collapses.

Jack: (smiles faintly) Exactly. Balance — that’s the real art.

Host: The rain stopped. The sky cleared in patches, revealing a handful of shy stars. The harbor glimmered faintly under their light, rippling, alive again.

Jeeny looked out the window, her reflection overlapping with the water’s shimmer, a quiet symbol of McGuane’s truth — that even when we look outward, we are always somehow seeing ourselves.

Jeeny: (whispering) Maybe solitude isn’t about being apart from others. Maybe it’s about finally being with yourself — and not running away.

Jack: (nodding) Yeah. Maybe solitude isn’t the opposite of connection. Maybe it’s what makes connection real.

Host: The café owner dimmed the lights, signaling closing time. Jack closed his notebook, Jeeny finished her tea. Neither spoke as they stood — they didn’t have to.

Outside, the night air smelled of salt and new beginnings. They walked side by side, quiet, steady, two silhouettes in sync but not entangled.

And as they reached the edge of the pier, the sea caught the faint light of the stars, and for a fleeting moment, it was impossible to tell where solitude ended and companionship began.