I love real books, paper books, but I also love buying online

Host: The evening rain fell like whispered arguments across the windowpane of a small independent bookstore, the kind that smelled of paper, dust, and nostalgia. Lightbulbs hung low from the ceiling, their filament glow catching the edges of stacked novels and coffee mugs half-forgotten on the counter.

Outside, the street was quiet — puddles reflecting the flicker of passing cars. Inside, Jack and Jeeny sat surrounded by books, the air thick with that particular silence only found where words sleep.

A poster on the wall read in fading ink:
“I love real books, paper books, but I also love buying online... For $25, it better be a really great book. Or you’re going to be mad.” — Caroline Leavitt

Jeeny: (smiling faintly, tracing the quote with her finger) “That’s the truth, isn’t it? Books are love until you see the price tag.”

Jack: (leaning back, smirking) “And yet here you are, sitting in the temple of overpriced romance. You could buy five eBooks for what that hardcover costs.”

Jeeny: “But can you smell a Kindle, Jack?”

Jack: “No. But I can hold a thousand books in one hand and still afford dinner.”

Host: The rain deepened, a rhythmic drumming that seemed to sync with the slow ticking of the old clock near the counter. The owner, a man in his sixties, sat reading behind the register, oblivious to the quiet war of ideals unfolding a few feet away.

Jeeny: “It’s not about convenience. It’s about connection. When I open a real book, I feel like I’m stepping into someone’s memory — the weight, the texture, even the smell. It’s… human.”

Jack: “And I feel like I’m paying extra for nostalgia. Paper is just technology that forgot how to evolve.”

Jeeny: “That’s harsh. Don’t you ever feel the magic of turning a page? The sound it makes — that little flutter of time?”

Jack: “I feel the same thing when I swipe a screen. But faster.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes narrowed in mock irritation, though her smile lingered. The light reflected off her coffee cup, trembling slightly as she lifted it. Jack, ever unbothered, sipped his own slowly, his grey eyes steady, his tone more curious than cruel.

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who’s never loved a library.”

Jack: “I did once. Until I realized the library didn’t love me back. Try carrying ten hardcovers through the subway in summer — see how romantic it feels then.”

Jeeny: “That’s not the point! It’s not supposed to be easy. It’s supposed to be intimate. You give your time, your hands, your attention — that’s what makes it meaningful.”

Jack: “You’re describing a relationship, not reading.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they’re the same thing.”

Host: The words hovered between them, sharp and soft at once. The shelves around them seemed to lean closer, listening. The rain paused for a heartbeat, then resumed — softer now, like applause from somewhere unseen.

Jack: “Let’s be honest, Jeeny. Most people don’t care about intimacy; they care about access. The world’s moved on. Online, you can explore any story instantly. It’s democratization. No gatekeepers.”

Jeeny: “Democracy without touch is emptiness. When everything’s digital, everything becomes disposable. You finish a book, delete it, move on. No weight. No trace.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s freedom. To let stories live and die without hoarding them.”

Jeeny: “Freedom isn’t forgetting. It’s remembering what matters.”

Host: Jeeny stood, her fingers running across a shelf of novels — brushing spines, touching titles as if greeting old friends. Dust lifted like soft ghosts under her touch.

Jeeny: “See this one?” (she pulled out a worn copy of East of Eden) “It belonged to my father. He read it every year. The corners are folded, the pages stained with coffee. When I open it, it feels like he’s still here.”

Jack: (quietly) “A Kindle can’t do that.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Jack: “But that’s your attachment, not the book’s fault. You’ve turned it into an altar. Some people just want the story — not the shrine.”

Host: She turned toward him, the book still in her hand, her eyes glinting with the kind of sadness that comes from understanding too much.

Jeeny: “And that’s what’s wrong, Jack. We’ve stopped building shrines for meaning. Everything’s transactional now — even art. You buy it, you rate it, you move on. No devotion.”

Jack: “Devotion doesn’t pay rent. Look — Caroline Leavitt’s right. A $25 book better earn its price. Art doesn’t deserve worship just for existing. It should prove itself.”

Jeeny: “Art doesn’t prove itself. It reveals itself. But only if you slow down long enough to listen.”

Host: The lights flickered, and the room seemed to breathe in unison with the rain outside. A young couple entered the store — wet from the weather, laughing, holding hands — and the faint scent of rain-soaked air followed them in.

Jack: “You sound like an old soul in a Wi-Fi world.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like someone who confuses speed for progress.”

Jack: (chuckling) “Maybe. But accessibility is progress. More people reading — that’s what matters, not the medium.”

Jeeny: “Then why does it feel like people read less deeply now? Because they skim — they scroll, they snack. Stories have become fast food for the mind.”

Jack: “Or maybe the mind’s just evolving. You can’t expect readers to live like monks in a digital storm.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Then maybe we need monks more than ever.”

Host: Her voice fell into the hush that followed, landing like a pebble dropped into a still pond. The sound of the rain returned stronger, steady, like the world agreeing with her.

Jack stared at her — at the conviction in her eyes, the quiet stubbornness in her posture. Something in him shifted, small but real.

Jack: “You know, I read once that Hemingway wrote standing up because he said it made him more honest. Maybe there’s something sacred in discomfort after all.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Exactly. The weight of a real book — it keeps you grounded. It asks something of you.”

Jack: “And in return?”

Jeeny: “It gives you more than words. It gives you memory.”

Host: Jeeny closed the book and handed it to him. Jack took it reluctantly, his fingers brushing the worn cover, the texture surprisingly tender — almost alive.

Jack: “Feels… heavier than it looks.”

Jeeny: “It’s carrying a soul or two.”

Jack: “Maybe more.”

Host: Outside, the rain began to ease, replaced by the faint sound of tires hissing over wet streets. The bookstore grew dimmer, quieter — as though the world were winding down to a whisper.

Jack set the book down gently, his earlier edge softened into something closer to thoughtfulness.

Jack: “Maybe the real argument isn’t paper versus screen. It’s permanence versus convenience.”

Jeeny: “And maybe the truth is that we need both — the eternal and the immediate.”

Jack: “A paradox, then.”

Jeeny: “No, a balance. We can love the new world without forgetting the old.”

Host: The owner looked up from behind the counter and smiled faintly, as though he’d heard every word and forgiven both sides.

Jack: “So, a Kindle for the train, a paperback for the heart?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The digital to consume, the physical to remember.”

Host: They both laughed — softly, like two voices finally finding harmony. The rain had stopped, leaving behind a smell of earth and renewal.

Jack rose from his chair, slipping the book under his arm.

Jeeny: “You buying it?”

Jack: (nodding) “For twenty-five dollars, it better be a great one.”

Jeeny: “It will be — if you read it slowly.”

Host: The doorbell chimed as they stepped out into the evening, their footsteps merging with the rhythm of a freshly washed world. Behind them, the bookstore lights glowed like a lantern, holding the last of the warmth — the kind that lives not just in pages, but in the hands that turn them.

Fade out.