It's not a faith in technology. It's faith in people.

Host: The rain had stopped, leaving the streets slick and glistening under the amber glow of the city’s streetlights. In the distance, the skyline pulsed with electronic light — windows, signs, screens — the rhythm of civilization coded in electricity. The air smelled faintly of ozone, metal, and something else — something human beneath all the circuitry.

Jack and Jeeny sat in a dim diner tucked between a robotics lab and a co-working hub — one of those glass-walled sanctuaries where developers came to dream, caffeinate, and forget what daylight looked like.

Across from them, the reflection of a billboard flickered through the window: a bright face smiling, illuminated words cutting through the night.

“It’s not a faith in technology. It’s faith in people.” — Steve Jobs.

The quote glowed white against a field of neon blue. And for a moment, it seemed to look back at them — daring them to decide whether they believed it.

Jeeny: quietly, tracing the edge of her cup “You know, I think that’s one of the most misunderstood lines he ever said.”

Jack: smirking “Because he built his empire on machines?”

Jeeny: “No. Because everyone remembers the machines — but not the people who made them.”

Host: The diner hummed softly — the low buzz of refrigeration, the steady drip of the coffee maker, the faint tapping of rain still falling from awnings outside. Jeeny’s voice carried warmth, but also a note of melancholy, like she was remembering something from before the screens took over.

Jack: “You sound nostalgic. Like you miss the world before touchscreens.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I miss the world before people stopped looking at each other.”

Jack: “Technology didn’t cause that. People did.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But technology gave them the excuse.”

Jack: “It gave them connection.”

Jeeny: “Connection isn’t the same as communion, Jack.”

Host: The light flickered above them, the faint hum of a neon sign breaking for half a second before returning to steady rhythm. Jack leaned back, his grey eyes distant, as if watching thoughts flicker across his own mind like a screen saver.

Jack: “You know what I think Jobs meant? He didn’t trust the tools — he trusted the hands that wielded them. The code, the circuit, the design — they’re nothing without imagination. That’s what people forget. It wasn’t faith in technology. It was faith in what we could make of it.”

Jeeny: “Faith in potential.”

Jack: “Exactly. Machines amplify who we are — they don’t change what we are.”

Jeeny: “But that’s the danger, isn’t it? When we start believing our tools define us instead of reflect us.”

Jack: “Or when we let them think for us.”

Jeeny: softly “Exactly.”

Host: Outside, a driverless car rolled past silently, its reflection sliding across the wet pavement like a ghost. Inside, the coffee steam rose between them, blurring their reflections on the window — two humans, fragile and awake, surrounded by the hum of the artificial.

Jeeny: “You know what scares me? Not technology itself — but how easily it replaces intimacy. How we confuse efficiency with empathy.”

Jack: “You think we’ve lost something permanent?”

Jeeny: “No. But I think we’re forgetting how to talk to each other without filters. Without curation.”

Jack: “And yet — look around. Everything that still moves us is human. Music. Stories. Love. Suffering. No algorithm can touch that.”

Jeeny: “Not yet.”

Jack: laughs softly “Always the realist.”

Jeeny: “No — the reminder. That the machine should never be the master. It should be the mirror.”

Host: Her words cut through the quiet like a small flame. Jack nodded, staring down at his reflection in the tabletop — the glow of his phone lighting one half of his face, the candle on the counter lighting the other. Human and digital, side by side, inseparable.

Jack: “You know, when Jobs said that, I think he was talking about more than products. I think he was talking about trust. About believing that people — flawed, brilliant, unpredictable — could still build something worthy of belief.”

Jeeny: “And yet, look at us. We’ve built systems that listen more than we do. Machines that learn faster than we can teach.”

Jack: “That’s not their fault. That’s ours. We wanted gods but settled for gadgets.”

Jeeny: “So maybe faith in people means reminding them they’re still sacred.”

Host: The rain began again, soft but steady — drops tracing the glass like Morse code. The neon billboard outside blinked, flickered, then steadied once more. Its reflection shimmered across the puddles — “Faith in people” repeating over and over, glowing like a mantra across the wet earth.

Jeeny: “You know, I once met a girl who coded AI for a humanitarian project — algorithms to detect early signs of depression through speech. She said it wasn’t about replacing therapy. It was about reaching the ones who couldn’t speak at all.”

Jack: “That’s the best of us — when technology bends toward compassion.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s when it stops being a tool and becomes a bridge.”

Jack: “And that’s what Jobs meant.”

Jeeny: “That’s what I hope he meant.”

Host: Her eyes lifted to the glowing screen again — the blue light painting her face with the faint shimmer of the future. She looked almost otherworldly — a silhouette of faith in a machine-lit world.

Jack: “You ever wonder what comes after all this? When the machines are smarter, faster, cleaner than us?”

Jeeny: “Then the only thing left that matters will be kindness. That’s the one thing they can’t code.”

Jack: “You think kindness can save us?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s the only system that doesn’t crash.”

Host: A faint smile tugged at the corner of Jack’s mouth. He reached for his coffee again — it had gone cold, but he drank anyway, the bitterness grounding him back in something undeniably real.

Jeeny: “We keep building machines to make life easier, but maybe what we really need is to remember why life is worth making easier at all.”

Jack: “You mean faith in purpose.”

Jeeny: “Faith in people. That’s what Jobs was saying. Technology’s the canvas — humanity’s the artist.”

Jack: “And when the artist forgets himself?”

Jeeny: “Then the art turns hollow.”

Host: The diner lights dimmed for a moment as the rain outside thickened, then steadied again. Jack looked at her, his face illuminated by the mix of candlelight and screen-glow — half warmth, half algorithm — and for a moment, the contrast didn’t seem like conflict, but coexistence.

Jack: “You know, for all our cynicism, maybe the future’s still worth believing in — as long as we remember who it’s supposed to serve.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Machines don’t have souls, Jack. But the people who make them do. That’s the power he believed in.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s the faith we need to relearn — not in what we build, but in what we become while building it.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because it was never about the technology. It was always about the humanity behind it.”

Host: The camera would pull back then, the two of them sitting in the faint hum of neon and rain, framed by the world’s quiet future — glowing, imperfect, alive.

Outside, the billboard flickered one last time before the screen went dark — and the words faded, leaving only their reflection shimmering on the wet street below:

“It’s not a faith in technology. It’s faith in people.”

Because the true engine of progress
was never metal, or code, or glass —
it was us.

The dreamers.
The doubters.
The hands that still build with hope.