I'm the type who minds my own business and am not keen on giving

Host: The rain had just stopped, leaving the city washed in a thin layer of silver. Streetlights blinked through the mist, and the neon signs from a distant bar flickered like breathing lungs. The air smelled of wet earth and tiredness. Inside a small café, steam coiled from coffee cups, rising slowly, curling into the low ceiling like ghosts of forgotten thoughts.

Jack sat near the window, elbows on the table, eyes lost in the blurred reflection of traffic lights. His grey eyes looked sharp, yet distant, like a soldier returned from a war no one else had fought. Across from him, Jeeny cradled her cup with both hands, her long black hair falling over her shoulders, eyes deep and quiet, as if listening to something beyond the room.

The quote between them was written on a napkin, scrawled in blue ink:
"I'm the type who minds my own business and am not keen on giving interviews on my mom's birthday, or my dog's birthday." — Andrea Jeremiah.

Jeeny smiled, her fingers tapping the edge of the cup.
Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How that one sentence says everything about boundaries, about privacy, about the right to simply be.”

Jack snorted softly, his mouth twisting into a half-smile.
Jack: “Or maybe it just says she doesn’t like talking to people. Not everything is a philosophy, Jeeny. Some of us just want to be left alone.”

Host: The sound of a bus passing outside filled the pause. The window glass trembled for a second, and both of them watched the lights move through the mist, like thoughts drifting across memory.

Jeeny: “But don’t you see? That’s exactly what she’s saying — to mind one’s own business is a kind of respect, not isolation. It’s the art of living without invading someone else’s peace.”

Jack: “Peace is a myth, Jeeny. The world doesn’t stop knocking just because you shut your door. You think you’re protecting your privacy, but really, you’re just building walls that make you lonelier.”

Host: Jeeny’s brow furrowed, her eyes sharpening with emotion. The rain began again, softly, as if listening to them.

Jeeny: “So you’d rather everyone live in each other’s pockets? Talk, share, perform constantly? That’s not connection, Jack, that’s noise. We’ve turned authenticity into a spectacle.”

Jack: “Maybe. But the spectacle keeps the world turning. Look at history — the people who changed the world didn’t mind their own business. They spoke. They interfered. Martin Luther King didn’t say, ‘Let me just stay quiet on my mom’s birthday.’ He stood up when it was uncomfortable.”

Host: His voice hardened, and the steam from his coffee rose between them like a thin curtain of tension.

Jeeny: “Don’t twist it, Jack. She wasn’t talking about silence in the face of injustice. She meant the everyday kind of nosiness, the gossip, the press, the need to explain yourself. Why do we owe the world our stories?”

Jack: “Because the world runs on stories. The moment you stop sharing, you stop existing in the public mind. Look at artists — the ones who refuse to give interviews fade into obscurity. You can mind your own business all you want, but don’t expect to be remembered.”

Host: A faint thunder rumbled somewhere beyond the horizon, echoing like a distant argument between clouds. Jeeny looked down, her lips pressing together, thinking.

Jeeny: “Maybe being remembered isn’t the point. Maybe living quietly, loving deeply, without display — that’s the freedom. You remember Emily Dickinson? She wrote her poems alone, never chasing fame. The world found her after she was gone. And her silence still speaks louder than most people’s noise.”

Jack: “Sure, but that’s a lottery. For every Dickinson, there are a million who vanish completely. If you don’t let the world see you, how can it value you?”

Jeeny: “Why must the world always validate our existence? Isn’t self-worth something internal? If you’re constantly seeking an audience, aren’t you just a slave to it?”

Host: The rain grew heavier, drumming against the window in steady beats, like a metronome of their hearts. A couple in the corner laughed, the sound soft and carefree, a contrast to the storm inside their conversation.

Jack: “It’s not about being a slave, Jeeny. It’s about participation. You can’t pretend you’re independent of the world. Even your silence is a kind of statement. When you say, ‘I mind my own business,’ you’re already telling the world something — that you’ve chosen to withdraw.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not withdrawal. Maybe it’s wisdom. There’s strength in choosing where to spend your energy. Not every day is for public performance. If someone wants to skip an interview to celebrate their mother or their dog, that’s not indifference, it’s balance. It’s knowing what really matters.”

Host: Jack leaned back, exhaling, the chair creaking under his weight. His grey eyes softened, but his jaw still held that quiet tension, like a man fighting an argument inside himself.

Jack: “I get your point. But life isn’t balanced, Jeeny. It’s messy, public, demanding. If everyone just minded their own business, nothing would ever change. The truth needs voices — loud ones.”

Jeeny: “And yet, Jack, truth also needs silence to grow. You can’t hear anything in a room that never stops talking.”

Host: For a long moment, neither spoke. The lights from passing cars painted their faces in shifting colors — red, gold, blue — like memories flickering in the rain.

Jack: “You ever think maybe people are just tired? That’s why they pull away — not because they hate the world, but because they’re drowning in it. Too many opinions, too much visibility. I get that. But I still think there’s danger in going silent for too long. The world forgets you.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s okay. Maybe being forgotten is a kind of freedom. Look around, Jack — everyone’s broadcasting, but no one’s listening. You call that living?”

Host: The rain slowed, turning to a soft drizzle, like the city was sighing. A neon sign outside flickered, illuminating Jeeny’s face for a second — her eyes shimmered, not from the light, but from something fragile and real.

Jack: “So what, we should all just shut up and tend to our own gardens?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And maybe, when the gardens bloom, others will see and learn — not from our words, but from our lives.”

Host: Jack chuckled quietly, but there was no mockery in it — only fatigue, and a hint of understanding.

Jack: “You really think that’s enough? Just living well?”

Jeeny: “It has to be. Because when you’re gone, it’s not the interviews or the headlines they’ll remember — it’s how you loved, how you showed up, even for the small things. Like a mother’s birthday. Or a dog’s.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked, steady and unhurried. The storm had passed, and a thin beam of moonlight broke through the clouds, resting gently on their table.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… maybe you’re right. Maybe the loudest kind of integrity is just quiet consistency.”

Jeeny: “And maybe the truest kind of courage is knowing when to say no, even when the world demands a yes.”

Host: They both smiled, the tension melting like sugar in warm tea. The city outside glimmered, washed clean, as if it too had listened and understood. The moonlight moved, resting on the napkin where the quote was written — a small, simple truth that had stirred a whole night of thoughts.

Host: In the quiet, only the sound of breathing and rain remained. The camera would have pulled back then — through the window, into the street, past the shimmering puddles, where the reflections of two people still sat, talking, listening, understanding — even in silence.