I think one of the biggest political failures, and the biggest

Host: The sun was setting behind the city, painting the skyline in streaks of rust and amber. From the rooftop of a half-abandoned apartment building, the world below looked both infinite and suffocating — cars honking, people moving, voices shouting, yet no one truly seeing one another.

The air smelled faintly of smoke and asphalt. A banner from an old protest fluttered on a nearby railing, torn and faded: “We Are One.”

Jack stood near the edge, his hands deep in his coat pockets, his eyes scanning the horizon with that restless mix of detachment and longing. Jeeny sat a few feet away on a broken concrete bench, her hair catching the dying light. She watched him with quiet sadness — not the sadness of pity, but of understanding what he refused to admit.

Host: The evening was calm, but beneath it, something trembled — like a heartbeat under glass.

Jack: “You ever think about how nobody listens anymore?”

Jeeny: “Always.”

Jack: “No, I mean really listens. Not to reply, not to judge — just to understand. Everyone’s too busy proving they’re right.”

Jeeny: “And you’re not?”

Jack gave a small, humorless laugh.

Jack: “I’m part of it too. We all are. That’s the tragedy, Jeeny. Empathy used to be the soul of politics — now it’s a marketing tool. You put it in a campaign slogan, sell it like perfume, and everyone moves on.”

Host: The wind stirred, carrying the echo of sirens from far below. A piece of newspaper fluttered across the roof, caught briefly on the bench beside Jeeny. She glanced at the headline: “Community Divided After Riot.” The date was recent.

Jeeny: “Colum McCann said it best — it’s a failure of empathy. Not just in politics, but in us. The inability to look at the other person down the street and still see yourself.”

Jack: “Empathy’s a luxury. Hard to care about strangers when you can barely afford your own rent. That’s the real divide — not race, not ideology. Just survival.”

Jeeny: “That’s the easy answer, Jack. You sound like everyone else — tired, bitter, justifying apathy because it hurts less than hope.”

Host: Her voice was calm but trembling, the kind of calm that hides exhaustion. The light on her face dimmed as a cloud passed, and for a moment, the world felt colder.

Jack: “You want to talk about failure? Look at history. Every revolution, every movement starts with empathy — ‘we the people,’ ‘for the people’ — and ends with someone in power forgetting what ‘the people’ even means. Empathy’s not sustainable. It’s fragile. It collapses under greed.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s not empathy that fails — maybe it’s us. Because we treat it like a feeling instead of a responsibility.”

Host: The city below flickered with early lights, glowing like constellations in a man-made night. A plane traced a silent line across the horizon — a silver wound in the dim orange sky.

Jack: “You can’t legislate empathy, Jeeny. You can’t vote it into existence. People are tribal — it’s how we survived. We care about what’s close. Everything else is noise.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the failure isn’t political, it’s moral. We’ve stopped imagining lives beyond our own. That’s what empathy is — imagination with heart.”

Jack: “Imagination doesn’t pay the bills. Try telling a father who just lost his job to empathize with the stranger who still has one.”

Jeeny: “And yet, that’s exactly when empathy matters most.”

Host: The tension between them thickened like smoke. Jack turned toward her, his eyes sharp, his voice low.

Jack: “You think empathy solves injustice? It doesn’t. It pacifies people. Keeps them believing that understanding someone’s pain is the same as changing it. That’s how systems survive — with empathy as a placebo.”

Jeeny: “That’s not empathy’s fault, Jack. That’s cowardice disguised as compassion. Real empathy demands action.”

Host: Her words cut through the air like flint against steel. Jack looked away, his jaw tight. A drop of rain hit the edge of his sleeve, darkening the fabric. The first warning of an approaching storm.

Jack: “You talk like empathy’s some divine force. It’s not. It’s fickle. Remember the refugee crisis? The photo of that boy washed up on the shore — Alan Kurdi. The whole world cried for a week. Hashtags, donations, candlelight vigils. Then the headlines changed, and everyone went back to brunch. That’s empathy — a wave that breaks and disappears.”

Jeeny: “But that wave moved something, Jack. It may have faded, but for a moment, it reminded us we still had hearts. Change doesn’t always roar; sometimes it whispers.”

Host: The rain began to fall — light, uncertain drops that tapped against the concrete and glistened in the dim light. Jeeny stood, pulling her coat tighter, but she didn’t move toward shelter.

Jeeny: “Do you really think people are that hollow?”

Jack: “I think people are tired. And tired people don’t build bridges — they build walls.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe empathy isn’t about building anything at all. Maybe it’s about standing at the wall and still choosing not to throw the first stone.”

Host: Jack met her gaze — something raw in his expression, something almost pleading. For a moment, the rain softened, and the world seemed to listen.

Jack: “You really think one person’s empathy can change anything?”

Jeeny: “Not the world. But maybe it changes the street. The neighbor. The conversation. That’s how it starts.”

Jack: “You sound like you still believe in people.”

Jeeny: “I have to. Otherwise, I’d become like you.”

Host: Her words lingered — not cruel, but heavy with truth. Jack didn’t respond immediately. He looked down at the street below, where a homeless man was sharing his umbrella with a stray dog. The image caught him off guard — fragile, silent, real.

Jack: “You know… maybe you’re right. Maybe empathy isn’t about grand gestures. Maybe it’s just those small things that go unnoticed — the ones that don’t make headlines.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The moment we stop seeing each other, we stop being a society. We become noise without harmony.”

Host: The rain now fell harder, blurring the world into silver streaks. Jeeny stepped closer, her eyes shining with conviction.

Jeeny: “Empathy is what keeps the human story from turning into a monologue. Without it, we’re just talking to ourselves.”

Jack: “And with it?”

Jeeny: “With it, we remember that the person down the street — the one we ignore, disagree with, fear — is also carrying a piece of our story.”

Host: Jack’s expression softened — not in defeat, but recognition. He pulled his collar up against the rain, glancing one last time at the glowing city below.

Jack: “You know, McCann was right. It’s not just politics. It’s everything. Somewhere between outrage and indifference, we forgot how to look each other in the eye.”

Jeeny: “Then let’s start by looking again.”

Host: The rain slowed. The sky, once clouded, began to crack open in faint streaks of moonlight. Jack and Jeeny stood side by side, silent, watching the city pulse beneath them — flawed, divided, yet alive.

And in that moment — under the weight of a tired sky and a healing rain — empathy didn’t feel like a lost idea.

It felt like a beginning.