In the world of online invitations, nothing is sacred. People

Host: The evening hummed with the restless buzz of a digital age. In the back corner of a small coffee bar, where the walls were lined with secondhand books and the air smelled faintly of burnt espresso, two phones glowed like small, artificial moons.

Jack sat with his sleeves rolled, his laptop open, scrolling through a sea of notifications. Jeeny sat across from him, her hands wrapped around a chipped mug, eyes fixed on the screen’s pale light reflecting in his grey eyes. The rain outside painted streaks down the window, blurring the city’s pulse into a haze of motion and memory.

Jeeny broke the silence first.

Jeeny: “Susannah Cahalan once said, ‘In the world of online invitations, nothing is sacred. People will invite all 500 of their “closest” friends to their birthday party — and 485 of those people will RSVP “yes” without intending to show up.’”

Jack: (snorts) “She’s not wrong. That’s the modern version of friendship — pixels pretending to be people.”

Host: The steam from Jeeny’s coffee drifted between them, like a thin ghost of warmth in a cold, digital world.

Jeeny: “It’s not just about friendship, Jack. It’s about honesty. We’ve created a world where showing up means clicking a button. Where caring is measured in likes.”

Jack: “Honesty’s expensive. Convenience is free. You think anyone wants to drive across town just to celebrate someone they haven’t spoken to since college? It’s not malice — it’s modern life.”

Jeeny: “Modern life? Or moral decay dressed in efficiency?”

Jack: “Same thing, these days.” (He smirked.) “You’re nostalgic for sincerity, Jeeny. But sincerity doesn’t scale. You can’t expect truth from a system built to optimize attention.”

Host: A bus hissed outside. The rain deepened its rhythm. Inside, a few patrons stared at their phones, thumbs moving in silent unison — the choreography of a civilization connected but not present.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the problem. We’ve mistaken connection for closeness. It’s like we’ve built a world full of doors but no one bothers to walk through.”

Jack: “You’re poetic tonight. But you know what I think? Those 485 people who RSVP ‘yes’ — they’re not lying. They just mean something else when they say yes. It’s symbolic. A digital nod. A way of saying, I acknowledge you exist, without the burden of presence.”

Jeeny: “But that’s not acknowledgment, Jack. That’s absence dressed up as engagement. It’s the illusion of caring. We’ve turned relationships into algorithms — predictable, automated, forgettable.”

Jack: “Maybe. But it’s efficient. Think about it — the online invitation is democracy. Everyone gets included, no one feels left out. You can’t be sacred in a system built for scale.”

Host: Jack leaned back, the chair creaking, his eyes sharp but tired. Jeeny’s fingers traced the rim of her cup, slow, deliberate — as if trying to remember the shape of stillness.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve accepted it. Like this erosion of meaning is progress.”

Jack: “It’s not erosion — it’s evolution. Society doesn’t move backward. It adapts. The sacred always dies to make room for the convenient.”

Jeeny: “Then convenience is the new god?”

Jack: “It already was. The moment someone realized you could RSVP without emotion.”

Host: The barista changed the song — an old jazz tune, low and nostalgic. For a brief moment, the sound of real instruments seemed almost foreign.

Jeeny: “You know, my grandmother used to write letters — real ones. Ink on paper. She told me once that she’d wait by the mailbox for days just to see if someone cared enough to write back. Now I get messages in seconds, but none of them feel alive.”

Jack: “That’s because you mistake speed for intimacy. The faster it gets, the thinner it feels. It’s not that people don’t care — they just have too many people to pretend to care about.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly my point, Jack. We’ve diluted meaning until there’s none left. Friendship used to be sacred — chosen. Now it’s a number. We collect people like souvenirs of our relevance.”

Jack: “And what’s wrong with that? We’ve expanded our tribe. A thousand people can now witness your life — your joy, your pain. Isn’t that power?”

Jeeny: “No, it’s exposure. Power without presence. It’s like standing in a crowded room, shouting, and realizing no one’s listening — they’re all just waiting for their turn to shout back.”

Host: A faint silence fell, broken only by the distant rumble of thunder. Jeeny looked away, toward the window, where a couple hurried past under a single umbrella, laughing as the rain fell harder. For a moment, their laughter seemed like proof that something human still survived the noise.

Jack: “You want people to be better than they are. But we’re creatures of comfort. The digital RSVP isn’t deceit; it’s mercy. It saves us from guilt.”

Jeeny: “Guilt is what keeps us human. Without it, we lose the weight of promises.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s what people want — a lighter life. No promises, no guilt, no sacredness. Just movement.”

Jeeny: “That’s not life, Jack. That’s drifting.”

Host: Her voice trembled, not with anger, but with something deeper — grief, perhaps, for a world that had forgotten the poetry of presence.

Jack: “Tell me this, then. Would you rather live in a world where people never lied about showing up, or one where at least they pretend to care? Isn’t a polite illusion better than a cruel silence?”

Jeeny: “No. Because lies rot the soil of truth, no matter how kind they sound. I’d rather be alone in honesty than surrounded by ghosts who click ‘yes’ just to feel seen.”

Host: The rain intensified, streaking the windows like tears sliding down glass. Jack’s expression softened, the edge in his voice dulling.

Jack: “You ever wonder, Jeeny, if maybe we RSVP ‘yes’ not because we plan to go… but because we wish we could?”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Wishing isn’t showing up, Jack. It’s longing without action. And longing without action is the loneliest thing of all.”

Host: The room grew still. Even the coffee machine seemed to pause. Jeeny’s eyes glistened in the dim light. Jack looked at her — and in her face, he saw something he hadn’t seen in a long time: disappointment without anger.

Jack: “You’re right. Maybe I’ve gotten too used to the illusion. Maybe we all have.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time we stop RSVP-ing to life, Jack — and start showing up.”

Host: Her words landed softly, but the echo lingered — deep, resonant, true.

Outside, the rain began to fade, the streets glistening like mirrors reflecting the flickering city lights. Inside, Jack closed his laptop slowly, as if shutting the door on something unseen.

Jack: “Alright. No more ghosts. Next time someone invites me, I’ll go.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Even if it’s inconvenient?”

Jack: “Especially then.”

Host: The barista called out last orders. The lights dimmed to a warm amber glow. The last few customers drifted out, faces bent to their glowing screens.

Jack and Jeeny stayed seated, the silence between them alive — not empty, but full, like a room after a storm where every sound feels reborn.

Outside, the rain finally stopped. A single ray of light from a passing car traced across their faces — two souls, still human enough to feel the weight of showing up in a world that had forgotten how.

And as Jeeny smiled, the neon sign above flickered once, then steadied — its soft glow spelling one word that somehow felt sacred again: Open.