It has been said that love is a function of communication. I

Host: The city was wrapped in late-night neon, a thin fog softening the edges of buildings and faces. The rain had stopped an hour ago, but the streets still glistened, each puddle a trembling mirror reflecting the lights of passing cars. A half-empty coffee shop stood at the corner — its windows fogged, its lights low, its soul awake.

Inside, Jack and Jeeny sat across from each other in a small booth near the window. The air between them was heavy with unspoken things.

On the table, two cups of coffee cooled beside a folded napkin where Jeeny had written a line she’d been thinking about all day — “It has been said that love is a function of communication. I believe that to be true. I believe, by extension, that human understanding is a function of communication. And the better human beings understand one another, the higher the level of functioning.”
— Dan Pallotta

Jack read it twice. His eyes, grey and analytical, flickered upward with that familiar glint — half skepticism, half fatigue.

Jack: “Love as a function of communication? Sounds like something a management consultant would say. Too mechanical for something as chaotic as love.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Maybe love is mechanical, Jack — not in the sense of coldness, but in precision. Maybe it needs constant tending, tuning, like an engine. Words, gestures, tone — they’re the gears.”

Host: A train rumbled faintly in the distance. The window quivered with the vibration, and the reflected city lights trembled across Jeeny’s face — eyes full of light and exhaustion both.

Jack: “If love depends on communication, then it’s doomed. People barely know how to talk to themselves, let alone to each other. Look around — we live in an age of messages, not meaning.”

Jeeny: “But that’s exactly the point, isn’t it? Pallotta isn’t saying that love automatically follows from communication — he’s saying it requires it. We misunderstand that difference. Communication isn’t about talking more — it’s about hearing more.”

Host: The steam from the coffee rose slowly, curling like ghostly handwriting in the air. The shop’s neon sign flickered rhythmically — OPEN / CLOSED / OPEN / CLOSED — as though unsure which it wanted to be.

Jack: “Hearing more? That’s romantic nonsense. People hear what they want to hear. Words are filters, not bridges. Look at history — wars started from misunderstandings, marriages ended because someone said too little, or too much. If love were just communication, we’d have solved it centuries ago.”

Jeeny: “And yet, every time we fix communication, even a little, something heals. Think of the Cold War, Jack — the entire world held its breath until Kennedy and Khrushchev started talking. A few words — measured, chosen — pulled humanity back from nuclear death. You call that mechanical? I call that divine.”

Host: The silence that followed was deep and strangely reverent. The rain started again, tapping softly against the glass, as though the sky itself had begun to whisper.

Jack: “Fine. But love isn’t the Cold War. It’s not diplomacy. It’s blood, and need, and fear, and vulnerability. You can’t negotiate it into existence.”

Jeeny: “No, but you can destroy it with silence. Love dies in the quiet, Jack — not from absence, but from words unsaid. Every broken heart I’ve seen started with someone who couldn’t — or wouldn’t — communicate.”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly, not with anger, but with memory. Jack’s jaw tightened, and he looked down, tracing the rim of his cup.

Jack: “So that’s what you think happened to us?”

Jeeny: (softly) “I think it’s what happens to everyone. We stop explaining the small things — what hurts, what heals — and then we wonder why the bridge collapses.”

Host: The rain grew stronger, drumming against the glass like a restless metronome. A couple nearby laughed — the kind of laughter that comes from easy understanding. Jack glanced toward them and sighed.

Jack: “You ever notice how people in love always look like they’re speaking a secret language? Maybe that’s what communication really is — decoding someone’s silence.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Communication isn’t words. It’s presence. It’s listening without waiting to reply. It’s saying ‘I understand,’ even when you don’t completely.”

Host: The light from a passing car washed briefly across their faces — one side gold, the other shadowed. It felt like watching two halves of one truth wrestle quietly for space.

Jack: “But what if some people don’t have the words? What if they were raised in noise, not language — in orders, not understanding? You can’t expect everyone to know how to speak love.”

Jeeny: “Then it’s our duty to teach them. To translate. That’s what communication really is — the work of translation between souls. You don’t need to be fluent in love to feel it. You just need to be willing to learn.”

Host: Her eyes shone with conviction — the kind that doesn’t shout, but refuses to fade. Jack looked at her, really looked, as if seeing something he’d missed for years.

Jack: “So you think communication is evolution. That we become better people when we understand each other better.”

Jeeny: “Of course. Pallotta said it perfectly — ‘the better human beings understand one another, the higher the level of functioning.’ That’s not just social theory. It’s survival. Empathy is the next stage of human evolution.”

Host: The lights outside blurred into watercolor trails of red and white. A group of students passed by, laughing under umbrellas — their joy cutting briefly through the heaviness inside.

Jack: “Empathy doesn’t build bridges. Action does.”

Jeeny: “And communication is action. Every kind word, every truth spoken, every silence broken — those are revolutions in miniature. Every apology starts a new world.”

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s the hardest thing in the world. Because it requires you to admit that you could be wrong. That maybe someone else’s truth deserves space beside yours.”

Host: Her words landed like small stones in still water. The ripples spread silently between them. Jack leaned back, his eyes distant, lost in something heavier than argument.

Jack: “I used to think communication meant winning — saying things sharper, clearer, faster. But maybe that’s why I kept losing people. Maybe I never listened for what wasn’t said.”

Jeeny: “That’s where love hides, Jack — in what isn’t said. In pauses. In the tremor of a word half-spoken. Love lives in the space between noise.”

Host: Outside, the rain stopped again, leaving behind a glassy silence. The city lights shimmered on the wet asphalt, reflecting the quiet between them.

Jack: (after a long pause) “You know what’s strange? I believe you. But I don’t know how to start communicating better. Words have always been my walls, not my bridges.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “Then start small. Ask. Listen. Don’t fill the silence — trust it. That’s communication, too.”

Host: She reached across the table and placed her hand over his — gentle, tentative. The gesture said more than any argument could.

Jack: “Maybe Pallotta was right. Maybe communication isn’t a skill. Maybe it’s an act of faith.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Faith that someone will stay long enough to understand you.”

Host: The camera lingered on their hands — still, connected, fragile. The world outside blurred into silence, the neon signs flickering like tired constellations.

A small smile ghosted across Jack’s face.

Jack: “Maybe understanding isn’t about speaking the same language. Maybe it’s about not giving up trying.”

Jeeny: “That’s love, Jack. The persistence of translation.”

Host: The scene held for a moment — two souls illuminated by nothing more than flickering light and mutual quiet.

Outside, the city sighed — a mosaic of movement, loneliness, and brief connection.

Inside, words had finally done what they were made to do: not fill the air, but make room for understanding.

As the lights dimmed, Pallotta’s truth lingered like a whisper in the closing silence:

Love is a function of communication. Understanding is its highest form. And through it, humanity learns to function — not as individuals, but as one breathing, listening whole.