Kids should speak to each other. They're horrid to each other

Host: The schoolyard was silent now — the kind of silence that lingers after chaos. The sky was a dull, metallic grey, and the rain from earlier still clung to the benches, reflecting fragments of cloudlight. Inside the small teacher’s lounge, a flickering fluorescent bulb hummed like a nervous thought.

Jack sat slumped in a chair, sleeves rolled, the faint smell of chalk dust and coffee hanging on him. Across the table sat Jeeny, her coat draped on the back of her chair, her hands wrapped around a mug that had gone cold long ago. On the table between them — a cracked smartphone, the screen still showing the message thread that had started the storm.

Jeeny: “They’re just kids, Jack. They don’t know what they’re doing half the time.”

Jack: flatly “That’s the problem. They don’t know. But the world already treats them like they should.”

Host: His eyes were hard, but not cruel — the kind of hardness that comes from exhaustion, not anger.

Jeeny: “You sound like Cara Delevingne now. ‘Kids should speak to each other,’ she said. ‘They’re horrid to each other online. The problem is too much freedom.’ But can we really blame freedom?”

Jack: “Of course we can. Freedom without wisdom is chaos. You give a child a megaphone before they know how words can wound — what do you expect? Civilization collapses one comment section at a time.”

Host: A faint wind blew through the open window, stirring a few loose papers on the counter. Outside, a soccer ball rolled across the wet field, aimless and forgotten.

Jeeny: “You think we should take it away? The freedom to speak, to express, to explore?”

Jack: “No. I think we should earn it before we get it. Just like driving a car, or voting. We teach those responsibilities. But social media? We hand it to twelve-year-olds like candy and act surprised when they choke.”

Jeeny: quietly “You sound angry.”

Jack: “I am. I saw what those kids did today. They drove another boy to tears — over nothing. Over a stupid photo. A stupid rumor.”

Host: His hands tightened on the coffee cup, the knuckles whitening. His voice carried the weight of something personal, something buried.

Jeeny: “You’ve seen this before, haven’t you?”

Jack: “My nephew. He was fourteen. They tore him apart online. Said he was weird, ugly, worthless. He stopped eating. Stopped talking. The phone was the only thing he touched. You know what he said to me once?”

Jeeny: softly “What?”

Jack: “‘They won’t stop talking, Uncle Jack. Even when I’m not there.’”

Host: The room fell silent, the only sound the faint buzzing of the light, like a whisper too small to hold meaning. Jeeny’s eyes glistened, her fingers tightening around her cup.

Jeeny: “That’s… heartbreaking. But isn’t that exactly why they need the space to talk? To understand? To grow empathy through connection?”

Jack: “You can’t learn empathy from an algorithm. The internet rewards outrage, not kindness. The more cruel you are, the more you’re seen. It’s a carnival of cruelty, dressed as community.”

Jeeny: “That’s harsh.”

Jack: “It’s reality. We’ve given children infinite freedom — but no tools to handle it. It’s too much, too young.”

Host: He leaned back, his face shadowed, the rainlight catching the sharp planes of his cheeks. His voice lowered, almost like a confession.

Jack: “When I was a kid, if you insulted someone, you had to face their eyes. Their silence. Their pain. Now it’s just pixels — there’s no accountability, no heartbeat.”

Jeeny: “But maybe that’s the challenge — not to restrict them, but to teach them what those pixels mean. They’re still people. Maybe they just forget.”

Jack: “Forgetting doesn’t excuse cruelty.”

Jeeny: “No. But understanding might prevent it.”

Host: The tension between them shifted — no longer anger, but grief wearing logic’s mask. Jeeny set down her cup, leaned forward, her eyes warm yet fierce.

Jeeny: “You think freedom is the enemy. But it’s ignorance. Freedom without guidance is just an empty hallway. They wander, they bump into walls, they hurt each other — not because they want to, but because no one’s there to teach them how to walk.”

Jack: “So what, we become their wardens?”

Jeeny: “No. Their mirrors.”

Host: Jack’s eyes flickered, caught off guard. The bulb overhead buzzed louder, the light turning almost golden for a fleeting moment before returning to its harsh white.

Jack: “Mirrors?”

Jeeny: “Yes. They need to see themselves. When they lash out, they’re reflecting pain they don’t understand. You don’t fix that by silencing them. You fix it by helping them hear themselves.”

Jack: “You talk like pain is something they can reason with.”

Jeeny: “Pain is something they can transform — if someone shows them how.”

Host: Outside, a group of students passed by the window, their laughter distant but real — echoing, carefree, unaware of the two adults dissecting their world in hushed tones.

Jack: “You think they’re capable of that kind of transformation?”

Jeeny: “They have to be. Otherwise we’re just raising ghosts — children who talk endlessly but never connect.”

Jack: “You make it sound like conversation is salvation.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Real conversation. Eye to eye. Soul to soul. The kind they’ve forgotten how to have.”

Host: Jack rubbed his forehead, exhaling through clenched teeth. The rain started again, soft, steady, like an old song replaying itself.

Jack: “It’s strange, isn’t it? The thing that was supposed to connect us — it’s what divides us most.”

Jeeny: “Because we mistake exposure for intimacy. They’re not the same.”

Jack: quietly “No. They never were.”

Host: The sound of the rain filled the room, softening the edges of their anger, their voices, their doubt. Jack’s gaze drifted toward the smartphone on the table. It vibrated once — a notification lighting the screen briefly — before going dark again.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe Cara was right about one thing. Kids should speak to each other — not through glass, but through silence, through eyes. Maybe we all should.”

Jack: “Maybe we forgot how.”

Jeeny: “Then it’s our job to remind them.”

Host: The light above them buzzed once more, then steadied. Jack looked at Jeeny — and for the first time that evening, the hardness in his eyes softened, replaced by something gentler: hope, fragile but breathing.

Jack: “You think it’s possible?”

Jeeny: “Yes. If we stop shouting and start listening.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back, drifting through the window, into the rain, where the schoolyard lights shimmered like constellations drowned in puddles. The laughter of unseen children echoed faintly, soft as forgiveness.

Inside, two souls sat beneath the buzz of a tired light, bound not by the war over freedom or silence, but by a shared realization — that too much freedom, too soon, isn’t liberty. It’s loneliness dressed as connection.

And as the rain whispered against the glass, they both understood what the world had forgotten: that real