In an odd sort of way, the computer and the Internet is the

Host: The city lay under a thick veil of fog, its lights muted, its streets glistening from a recent rain. In a small apartment, halfway up a forgotten building, a single computer screen cast a pale blue glow into the darkness. The hum of the fan, the click of the keyboard, the soft tap of raindrops on the window — that was all the sound there was.

Jack sat by the desk, his face lit in fractured light, the reflection of a thousand tabs dancing in his grey eyes. His hands moved with mechanical precision, typing, deleting, retyping — a man at war with words.

Jeeny stood by the window, her arms crossed, her gaze lost in the distant neon haze. The city below pulsed like a living organism, while the room above felt like a sealed capsule, immune to the rhythm of life.

Host: It was late. The kind of hour when truths come quietly, when screens glow brighter than souls, and loneliness feels like comfort.

Jeeny: “You’ve been sitting there for hours. You haven’t said a word, Jack.”

Jack: “I’ve said plenty. Just not out loud.”

Jeeny: “Emails?”

Jack: “Emails. Messages. A few replies on the forum. That’s enough talking for one night.”

Host: She watched him — the way his shoulders hunched toward the light, as though the screen itself was his only source of warmth.

Jeeny: “Michael Finkel once said, ‘The Internet has been really good for hermits.’ Do you believe that?”

Jack: “Of course. It’s the perfect tool. You don’t have to see anyone, don’t have to hear their voices, don’t have to deal with the awkwardness of being… human. You can just send, and they’ll read when they want. No expectation, no emotion, just pure information. It’s clean.”

Jeeny: “Clean? Or empty?”

Jack: “Efficient. There’s a difference.”

Host: The computer light flickered, reflecting off the rain outside. Jeeny’s face softened — a mix of sadness and recognition.

Jeeny: “You call it efficient, but it feels like an illusion of connection. You can speak to a thousand people without ever being heard. You can be known without being seen. That’s not communication, Jack — that’s echo.”

Jack: “Maybe echo is all we need. The world talks too much, Jeeny. Too many voices, not enough listening. Online, at least, you get space. You can think before you speak. You can vanish when you want. Isn’t that what people really crave — freedom from being watched all the time?”

Jeeny: “But the freedom you describe isn’t liberation, it’s isolation. You’ve built a cave with Wi-Fi, Jack. You’ve traded the awkwardness of the human touch for the safety of a glowing screen.”

Host: A pause — long, heavy, electric. The computer fan whirred louder, filling the silence like a restless breath.

Jack: “And what’s so wrong with that? The hermits used to hide in mountains, caves, monasteries. Now we’ve just found digital ones. Some people need distance to stay sane. The Internet just makes that possible.”

Jeeny: “You think this is sanity? Scrolling through faces you’ll never touch, words that vanish like smoke, and connections that never leave a mark? That’s not solitude, Jack — it’s starvation. You’re feeding your mind, but starving your soul.”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly, though her eyes did not. Jack leaned back in his chair, the glow from the monitor painting sharp angles across his features — a man half-illuminated, half-shadowed.

Jack: “You talk about the soul like it’s an app that needs updating. Maybe people like me don’t want connection. Maybe we’ve seen too much of what connection becomes — noise, drama, judgment. Online, I can choose my silence. I can exist without performance.”

Jeeny: “But don’t you see? Even in your silence, you’re still performing. You curate what people see, what they read, what they think you are. You’ve just replaced one mask with another — the hermit’s mask of neutrality.”

Host: A gust of wind blew the curtains, scattering faint dust through the beam of the monitor’s light. It looked like a storm of forgotten thoughts suspended in air.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am hiding. But so what? The world isn’t kind, Jeeny. You step outside, you get measured, judged, scanned by eyes that don’t even see you. Online, I can be invisible. And for some of us, invisibility is peace.”

Jeeny: “Peace that costs you your pulse. You think the hermit found peace because he hid from the world? No — he found it because he faced his mind. You, Jack, are hiding from both. You’ve replaced the stillness of spirit with the noise of notifications.”

Host: The words hit him — not as anger, but as an ache. He looked away, his hand hovering above the keyboard, fingers trembling as though the keys had become too heavy to press.

Jack: “Maybe I’m tired, Jeeny. Maybe I don’t want to face anyone — not them, not even myself. It’s easier this way. The screen doesn’t ask me how I feel. It doesn’t look disappointed.”

Jeeny: “But it also doesn’t forgive you, Jack. It doesn’t embrace you. It doesn’t breathe. You can’t hide from the human need to be seen — no matter how deep the cave, that need will echo until you answer.”

Host: Her words lingered in the air, hanging between the digital and the real, between what could be sent and what must be said.

Jack: “You think it’s so simple — just step outside, talk, connect. But every connection feels like a risk now. One wrong word and people cancel you, mock you, forget you. Out there, it’s all exposure. In here, I can still breathe.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the answer isn’t to hide or to speak, but to listen. Not to the world, not to the noise, but to the silence inside you — the part that still longs for a real voice. You can’t find that on a screen.”

Host: The computer dimmed to sleep, casting the room into shadow. The only light now came from the street, flickering through the window in stripes of neon and mist.

Jack turned, his face half in darkness, half in reflection.

Jack: “You ever think maybe the Internet isn’t the hermit’s refuge — maybe it’s his trap? It lets you believe you’re alone, but it’s always watching, always recording, always wanting more of you.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But that means there’s still a choice, Jack. To use it as a cave, or as a bridge. To retreat, or to reach. You can be a hermit — but don’t be a ghost.”

Host: The words struck like a final note, resonant, unfinished, but whole.

Jack looked down at the keyboard, then at Jeeny, and for the first time in hours, he smiled — a faint, human smile, raw and unguarded.

Jack: “Maybe I’ll send fewer emails tonight.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe you’ll just talk to me.”

Host: And so they did — two voices in a room, breaking through the digital haze with nothing but breath and presence. Outside, the fog began to lift, revealing faint traces of dawn. The screen remained dark, but the world beyond it was alive, humming, waiting — for words that were finally spoken.