In my adolescence, I think I felt very outcast; I felt lonely. I

Host: The rain fell in silver threads over the empty streets of Melbourne, the streetlights shimmering like lonely souls caught between shadow and memory. The city breathed in silence, broken only by the distant hum of a tram and the echo of footsteps on wet asphalt. Inside a small, dimly lit café at the corner of Flinders Lane, Jack and Jeeny sat across from each other, their reflections trembling in the windowpane as if the night itself were unsure of its own existence.

Jack’s hands were wrapped around a black coffee, his grey eyes half-hidden beneath the shadow of his brow, the smoke from his cigarette curling lazily like a ghost escaping a confession. Jeeny sat opposite, her hair still damp from the rain, a faint sadness caught in her gaze as she traced circles on the table with her fingertip.

The quote had lingered between them like an old wound they were afraid to touch.

Jeeny: “Leunig said he would wander the streets during Christmas, feeling lonely, feeling like an outcast… Do you know that kind of loneliness, Jack?”

Jack: (dryly) “Everyone knows it, Jeeny. Some just don’t write poems about it.”

Host: The lights flickered. The café’s only other patron, an old man reading a newspaper, coughed softly, his presence like a fading echo of a forgotten world.

Jeeny: “You always hide behind your cynicism, don’t you? Leunig’s words weren’t just about being alone—they were about being disconnected in a world obsessed with belonging. There’s a kind of beauty in that sadness.”

Jack: “Beauty in sadness? That’s what poets say when they can’t fix their own lives. Loneliness isn’t beautiful—it’s just the mind’s way of saying you’ve lost touch with the herd. Humans are social animals. When we’re isolated, we start to rot inside.”

Jeeny: “And yet, sometimes the herd is what poisons us. Have you ever walked through the city during Christmas, Jack? All those lights, smiles, and advertisements screaming about joy—but underneath, you can feel the hollowness. Leunig felt that too. Maybe he was the only one honest enough to admit it.”

Host: A bus passed outside, splashing through a puddle, scattering reflections like broken glass. Jack’s eyes followed the movement, his jaw tightening.

Jack: “You’re romanticizing alienation, Jeeny. You think that by being an outsider, one becomes authentic—but it’s just another kind of self-deception. People like Leunig walk away from the world because they can’t stand its imperfections, but the world doesn’t owe anyone understanding.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. They walk away because the world has stopped listening. Look around you—the noise, the rush, the obsession with success and status. People are more connected than ever and yet they’ve never been more alone. That’s not self-deception. That’s awareness.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, like a quiet applause for the rising tension. The window rattled softly; a draft crept through the door, carrying with it the faint scent of wet leaves and asphalt.

Jack: “Awareness doesn’t pay the bills, Jeeny. You think loneliness is some divine awakening, but for most, it’s just emptiness. People break under it. You know how many end up in hospitals, in rehab, or worse, because they couldn’t handle the silence? There’s nothing noble about that.”

Jeeny: “Then why do so many artists—Van Gogh, Woolf, Leunig—find truth in solitude? Maybe the pain is necessary to strip away illusion. You call it emptiness; I call it cleansing. Loneliness can be a kind of rebirth, Jack.”

Jack: “Van Gogh also cut off his ear, Jeeny. You’re confusing madness with wisdom.”

Host: A flash of lightning illuminated their faces—the skeptic and the dreamer, two sides of the same human ache. The sound of rain softened into a steady rhythm, like the heartbeat of the night.

Jeeny: “No, I’m not confusing them. I’m saying that sometimes madness is what happens when a person sees the truth too clearly. The world punishes those who don’t play along, who feel too deeply. When Leunig wandered those streets, maybe he wasn’t running away—maybe he was searching for something the rest of us had forgotten.”

Jack: “Searching? For what? Meaning? God? Love? You think wandering under Christmas lights makes anyone closer to truth? The truth is simple, Jeeny—life is indifferent. You can walk through the loneliest streets or sit in the loudest crowd—it doesn’t care.”

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who’s been hurt and decided to call it philosophy.”

Host: The words hung in the air like a shard of glass, sharp and trembling. Jack looked away, his fingers tightening around the cup until the ceramic creaked.

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe I just stopped pretending that pain means something.”

Jeeny: “But it does, Jack. That’s the difference between being alive and merely existing. Loneliness isn’t the absence of people—it’s the absence of understanding. When Leunig spoke of wandering those streets, he wasn’t seeking company; he was seeking to understand why the world could feel so full and so empty at the same time.”

Host: The clock above the counter ticked softly, the sound of passing time like a whispered reminder that all conversations eventually meet their end. The barista wiped down the counter, glancing at the pair with weary curiosity.

Jack: “So what do you do with that kind of awareness, Jeeny? You can’t build a life on it. You can’t fill your fridge with existential truth. People survive by belonging—by dulling the edges.”

Jeeny: “You dull your edges, Jack. But I think those sharp parts—the ones that hurt—are what make us real. The world needs people who feel too much. Otherwise, who would remind us of our own souls?”

Host: A long silence settled. Jack’s expression softened, the fight draining from his shoulders. Outside, the rain had eased into a mist, and the city lights glowed through it like faint stars over water.

Jack: “You really believe that loneliness can save us?”

Jeeny: “Not save us. But it can wake us. Maybe that’s enough.”

Jack: (quietly) “I used to walk alone too… back when I was younger. Thought it meant I didn’t belong anywhere. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it was the only time I really did.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Then you understand him more than you admit.”

Host: The wind brushed past the window, lifting the curtain just slightly. A sliver of light slipped across the table, catching on the rim of Jeeny’s cup. In that small moment, something unspoken passed between them—a shared acknowledgment of the quiet truth that had lived beneath their argument.

Jack: “Maybe loneliness isn’t the enemy. Maybe it’s the teacher.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It reminds us that connection isn’t guaranteed—it has to be earned, nurtured, cherished. The loneliest people often love the deepest.”

Host: The rain stopped completely. The air outside was still, as if the world itself had paused to listen. Jack leaned back, exhaling a slow breath, the faintest smile tugging at his lips.

Jack: “You win this one, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “It’s not about winning. It’s about remembering.”

Host: They sat in silence, two souls adrift in the gentle afterglow of understanding. The café light dimmed, casting long shadows across their faces. Outside, the streets of Melbourne gleamed—empty, quiet, and alive with the ghosts of all who had ever wandered them seeking something nameless.

As the camera of the night pulled away, the scene froze on the window—Jack and Jeeny’s reflections faint but unbroken—while the city whispered softly, almost tenderly, in its own kind of lonely song.