In the time of social media, I get lots of wishes. It's

Host: The neon lights of the city flickered like nervous hearts against the night’s black canvas. A fine drizzle fell, whispering across the rooftops, catching in the dim yellow glow of the streetlamps. Inside a small corner café, the air shimmered with steam and soft jazz, and the windows breathed with condensation.

Jack sat near the window, his coat collar turned up, eyes fixed on his phone, its blue light staining his face. Jeeny sat across from him, hands cupped around a mug, watching the rain bead and slide down the glass like slow tears.

The café was quiet except for the tapping of spoons and the hum of conversation. It was the kind of place where time slowed, where words mattered.

Jeeny: “Did you see this post from Harshvardhan Rane? He said—‘In the time of social media, I get lots of wishes. It’s overwhelming! What makes the day most special is the love I get from my fans, who try to make the occasion extra special. Almost fifty days before my birthday, they start planning. I’ve even been receiving letters.’”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “That’s… sweet, I guess. But also kind of performative, don’t you think? Social media love isn’t real love, Jeeny. It’s pixels pretending to care.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “Maybe it’s not perfect, but it’s still connection, Jack. Those fans, those letters, those plans—they mean someone is thinking of him, even from afar. Isn’t that something?”

Host: The rain deepened, thudding more heavily against the window. A taxi splashed past, casting waves of reflected light across their table. Jack’s eyes followed it for a moment, then returned to Jeeny.

Jack: “Something, sure. But not everything. People confuse attention with affection. Just because thousands of people type ‘happy birthday’ doesn’t mean they know who you really are. It’s easy to click, hard to care.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t love sometimes just the effort, Jack? Even a click, if it comes from a real feeling? Those letters—that’s not just automation. That’s human.”

Jack: (leaning forward, his voice low) “You’re telling me that people sending emojis on a timeline are showing love? Real love requires presence, sacrifice, time—things that social media can’t simulate. It’s like feeding someone a photograph of bread when they’re starving.”

Jeeny: (her tone sharpening) “And yet, sometimes that photograph keeps them alive until the real thing comes. Haven’t you ever read a message from someone far away and felt less alone? Don’t dismiss what you don’t understand, Jack.”

Host: The café door opened, a gust of cold air swirling in, carrying the scent of wet asphalt and city rain. For a second, the jazz paused, and only the rain spoke. Jack’s fingers tightened around his cup, heat seeping into his skin.

Jack: “You’re too trusting. You think every heart online beats honestly. But the truth? Most people just chase visibility, not connection. They want to be seen, not to see.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Maybe. But visibility can also be a bridge. Think of those who never get noticed—artists, writers, lonely souls posting into the void. When someone replies, even once, it’s a spark of recognition. Don’t you think we all need that?”

Jack: “Recognition isn’t the same as love.”

Jeeny: “But it’s the seed of it.”

Host: A moment of silence stretched between them, filled with the soft clinking of cups and the distant rumble of thunder. The light outside shifted, casting shadows on their faces—half bright, half dark—as if the world itself couldn’t decide which one to believe.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, birthdays meant something. One or two people who knew you—really knew you—would show up. No hashtags, no filters. Just faces, laughter, the smell of burnt candles. Now it’s all posts and counters. Love has become a metric.”

Jeeny: (nodding slowly) “Maybe love has always had metrics—only the tools changed. Back then, it was how many people showed up at your door. Now it’s how many messages you receive. The core is still the same: the need to be remembered.”

Jack: “But being remembered by strangers—what does that even mean?”

Jeeny: “It means you’ve touched someone’s heart, even for a moment. Isn’t that the dream of every human being—to matter, even briefly?”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes shimmered, reflecting the faint light from the candle between them. Jack looked away, as though the warmth unsettled him. The tension pulsed, not from anger, but from two truths colliding.

Jack: “You talk about connection, but social media creates illusions. It’s like the Roman bread and circuses—keep people entertained, and they’ll call it love. All this fan culture, all these planned birthdays fifty days in advance—it’s obsession, not affection.”

Jeeny: (firmly) “No, Jack. Obsession is when love forgets to respect. But affection, even when expressed in digital form, is still human. Those fans are building something—they’re celebrating someone who gave them joy. Why mock that?”

Jack: (voice hardening) “Because it’s parasitic. They build their identities around strangers. You’ve seen how far it goes—people crying for celebrities they never met, sending money, fighting wars online. It’s worship, not love.”

Jeeny: “And yet, even worship comes from adoration, from meaning. Don’t you see, Jack? In a world this lonely, sometimes adoring someone—anyone—is how people survive.”

Host: The candle flickered, casting trembling light on their faces. Outside, the rain softened, turning into a mist, as though the sky itself sighed in exhaustion.

Jack’s voice broke the stillness again, lower, almost tired.

Jack: “I get what you’re saying. Maybe I’m just… wary. I’ve seen too many fake smiles, too many curated hearts. Everyone’s chasing validation, Jeeny. Even him—Harshvardhan, or whoever. He says he’s overwhelmed, but he still posts about it.”

Jeeny: (gently) “Maybe that’s his way of saying thank you. Maybe it’s not vanity, but gratitude. Don’t you think a person can be both overwhelmed and grateful?”

Jack: (after a pause) “Maybe. But gratitude doesn’t always need an audience.”

Jeeny: “Neither does pain, but we still share it. We’re human, Jack. We reach out, hoping someone will understand—even if it’s through a screen.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled, not from anger but from tenderness. Jack’s gaze softened, the steel in his eyes melting for just a moment. The rain’s rhythm slowed, like a heartbeat calming after a long run.

Jack: “You really believe people can love through glass?”

Jeeny: “I believe love finds a way—through letters, through songs, through digital screens, even through silence. It’s not the medium, Jack. It’s the meaning.”

Jack: “And when the power goes out?”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Then maybe they’ll write again—by hand.”

Host: A laugh escaped her, soft and sincere, breaking the tension like light through clouds. Jack chuckled, too, the sound low, reluctant, but real. The storm outside cleared, leaving behind puddles that mirrored the city’s glow.

Jeeny: “You know, your cynicism—it’s not wrong. There’s fakery everywhere. But love still hides between the fake. You just have to look closely.”

Jack: “And you think fans planning birthdays fifty days early are proof of that?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because in those fifty days, they’re thinking of someone else’s happiness. That’s love in motion, Jack. Even if imperfect.”

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe imperfection is all we ever get.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And maybe that’s enough.”

Host: Silence returned, but it was different now—gentle, settled, warm. The rain had stopped, the air smelled clean, and the city lights shimmered like forgiven mistakes. Jack leaned back, his expression unreadable, yet somehow lighter.

Jack: “Alright, Jeeny. Maybe I’ll give you this one. Maybe love doesn’t care how it travels—as long as it arrives.”

Jeeny: “That’s all it’s ever wanted—to arrive.”

Host: The camera of the night pulled back, through the window, through the drifting mist, leaving the two of them in the soft glow of lamps and cooling coffee. The candle burned low, its flame steady, like the faint pulse of something still alive in the world—
a connection, fragile, but true.