In many companies, the person who talks the best usually gets the

Host: The office was quiet, the kind of quiet that follows storms — not weather, but meetings. The sky outside was a pale gray, its light filtered through the blinds, casting stripes of gold and shadow across the floor. A single coffee cup sat forgotten on the conference table, the steam long gone, the silence thick enough to hear the faint hum of the air conditioner.

Jack stood by the window, his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled up, his eyes fixed on the skyline where towers pierced the afternoon haze. Jeeny sat at the far end of the room, her laptop open but untouched. Between them — a gulf made not of distance, but of something heavier: disillusionment.

Host: The last meeting had just ended. Another round of “inspirational” pitches, polished speeches, gleaming smiles. Another round of noise that pretended to be vision.

Jack: “You know what John Mackey said once?” (He spoke without turning.) “‘In many companies, the person who talks the best usually gets the job… but I don’t think there’s always a correlation between being a great communicator and other virtues that make for a great leader.’”

(He paused, watching a bird land on the windowsill.) “I used to think he was wrong. Thought communication was leadership. But now... after today? I’m starting to believe he was right all along.”

Jeeny: “You mean because our new manager talks like a TED speaker and leads like a ghost?”

Host: Jack’s lips twitched into something between a smirk and a sigh.

Jack: “Exactly. The man could sell water to a raincloud. But ask him to make a decision, and he freezes. He confuses eloquence with courage.”

Jeeny: “That’s not new. Most companies run on performance, not principles. The best actors win.”

Jack: (turning to face her) “And we’re complicit. We reward the show. We fall for the charm, the tone, the polish — every damn time. I’ve hired those people before. The ones who can talk the sun into shining. And for a while, you believe them. Until you realize the warmth was artificial.”

Host: Jeeny closed her laptop, her fingers resting on the lid as if holding down a thought trying to escape.

Jeeny: “You can’t blame words, Jack. Words are tools. It’s not communication that’s the problem — it’s intent. A good communicator with bad integrity is just a weapon with good aim.”

Jack: “But how do you tell the difference? Everyone looks authentic now. They’ve all studied charisma, body language, empathy training — it’s an industry of imitation. You don’t even have to be real anymore; you just have to sound real.”

Jeeny: “That’s why leadership’s dying. We keep mistaking confidence for competence.”

Host: The light shifted; the sun broke briefly through the clouds, painting the room in an amber glow. Dust particles floated like slow thoughts, visible only when caught by the light.

Jack: “I remember when being a leader meant being the last to leave and the first to take blame. Now it just means you’ve got the best slides.”

Jeeny: “You sound bitter.”

Jack: “No. I sound tired. There’s a difference.”

Host: The silence that followed was not cold, but contemplative. Jeeny rose and walked toward the window, standing beside him. The city stretched below — glass, metal, ambition — each building like a mirror reflecting the same illusion of power.

Jeeny: “You know, Mackey wasn’t dismissing communication. He built an empire on it. But he knew something deeper — that words without substance are like air without oxygen. You can breathe them, but you’ll still suffocate.”

Jack: “So what do we do? Stop listening to people who sound good?”

Jeeny: “No. Start watching what they do when no one’s listening.”

Host: Her reflection met his in the window. For a moment, they stood in silence, twin silhouettes framed by the golden edge of the dying light.

Jack: “You think there’s still room for quiet leaders? The ones who don’t sell vision, but just... live it?”

Jeeny: “There has to be. Look at people like Tim Cook, or Satya Nadella. They don’t shout. They build. Real leadership isn’t about commanding a room. It’s about carrying a weight without dropping it.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Maybe that’s why so few do it. The weight’s invisible, but the applause is addictive.”

Jeeny: “And applause can make you deaf.”

Host: The rain began again — soft, deliberate, each drop tapping against the glass like a metronome for reflection.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I envied those talkers. The ones who could walk into a room and make everyone feel like gravity just shifted toward them. I thought that’s what power was — command through voice.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think power is silence that doesn’t need to prove itself.”

Host: Jeeny smiled, faint but full of meaning.

Jeeny: “Funny. That sounds like something a real leader would say.”

Jack: (shrugging) “Too bad real leaders don’t get promoted anymore. Just performers.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But every performer eventually forgets their lines. And that’s when you see who they really are.”

Host: The rain softened into mist. The skyline outside blurred — buildings melting into one another, as though the city itself was reconsidering its reflection.

Jack: “So what’s the lesson here, Jeeny? Stop trusting charisma?”

Jeeny: “No. Start trusting consistency. Anyone can impress once. Only character can endure.”

Jack: “And communication?”

Jeeny: “Still important. But only when it’s rooted in truth. Otherwise, it’s just noise in a suit.”

Host: Jack chuckled softly, the sound low and tired, but genuine — like a man exhaling years of pretense.

Jack: “You know, I used to think leading was about being heard. Maybe it’s just about making others feel seen.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And that’s something no amount of talking can fake.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked toward evening. The room was dim now, the last threads of daylight slipping between the blinds like fading memory.

Jeeny picked up her bag, paused by the door.

Jeeny: “For what it’s worth, Jack… you’re one of the few I’d still follow. Even if you don’t talk the best.”

Jack: (smiling) “That’s because I’m too busy trying to mean what I say.”

Host: She smiled — that small, sincere kind of smile that carries more truth than any speech. Then she left, her footsteps fading into the hall.

Jack turned back to the window. The rain had stopped, and the city lights had come alive — glowing like a constellation built by ambition and illusion. He watched them quietly, his reflection merging with the skyline.

For once, he didn’t say anything.

Host: The camera pulled back slowly, leaving Jack framed by glass and light — a man between ideals and exhaustion. The hum of the office returned, distant and steady.

Outside, the city continued its endless talk — but inside, for one fragile, fleeting moment, silence spoke with the power of truth.