LinkedIn is a rather staid professional network, not some kind of

Host: The morning sun crept reluctantly into the co-working space, sliding across the polished floors like a slow whisper of light. The air smelled of coffee, screens, and ambition — that sterile kind of corporate optimism people wear like perfume.

Jack sat at a long wooden table, laptop open, scrolling through his LinkedIn feed with a frown that bordered on disbelief. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, tie abandoned somewhere in the chaos of last night’s work. Jeeny walked in, balancing two cups of coffee, her hair still slightly messy, but her smile disarmingly calm.

The city outside buzzed — cars, heels, horns, the orchestra of professionalism trying too hard to sound important.

Jeeny: “You look like someone just offered you a job you can’t stand.”

Jack: “Worse. Someone offered me a compliment I didn’t ask for.”

Host: He turned the screen toward her. A LinkedIn message glowed — “You have the most captivating eyes in your profile photo.”

Jeeny winced and laughed at the same time.

Jeeny: “Ah. The corporate equivalent of catcalling.”

Jack: “Exactly. And the best part? It ends with: ‘We should connect professionally.’”

Host: The way he said “professionally” was almost venomous.

Jeeny sipped her coffee.

Jeeny: “You shouldn’t be surprised. Cathy Newman was right — ‘LinkedIn is a rather staid professional network, not some kind of dating site.’ But tell that to half the people there.”

Jack: “She was being polite. It’s become a masquerade. Everyone pretending to be visionary while secretly scrolling for attention.”

Host: The light shifted as the sun climbed higher, the office beginning to fill with muffled chatter. Someone laughed across the room, too loud, too early.

Jeeny set her cup down and leaned forward.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what all social platforms become? Mirrors we polish to see the version of ourselves we wish others would applaud?”

Jack: “That’s the problem. LinkedIn was supposed to be different — a temple for work, not vanity. Now it’s full of self-help gurus, humblebragging executives, and people posting about resilience because their cappuccino machine broke.”

Jeeny: “You sound almost betrayed.”

Jack: “Maybe I am. I miss when professionalism meant something more than performance.”

Host: Jeeny tilted her head, thoughtful. The light caught in her eyes, soft and perceptive.

Jeeny: “But maybe this is just honesty, Jack. Maybe people are finally showing their real selves — messy, lonely, searching. Maybe the blurring of lines isn’t corruption. Maybe it’s confession.”

Jack: “Confession?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Think about it. People are tired of pretending that work and life are separate worlds. So they overshare. They flirt. They talk about burnout and breakups. Maybe LinkedIn isn’t becoming a dating site — maybe it’s becoming human.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But dangerous. You mix the personal with the professional, and you lose respect. You start to think empathy equals weakness.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe you start to see that professionalism without humanity is just machinery in a suit.”

Host: The air between them thickened, like the pause before thunder. The murmur of other workers faded into a low, distant hum.

Jack: “Jeeny, the moment you make business emotional, you compromise judgment. That’s why we keep boundaries — to protect clarity.”

Jeeny: “Boundaries are important, yes. But so is connection. Do you know how many people find mentors, collaborations, even courage through small human interactions online? You call it blurred lines. I call it evolution.”

Jack: “Evolution that leads where, exactly? To people flirting during job hunts? To recruiters ghosting candidates like bad Tinder dates?”

Jeeny: “You’re confusing misuse with meaning. Just because some people treat it wrongly doesn’t make the whole platform rotten. The same tool that feeds vanity also amplifies generosity — people helping strangers, sharing wisdom, lifting others up.”

Host: The light outside grew brighter, but the conversation’s tone deepened — from irritation to philosophy. A flyer on the wall read “Work. Connect. Grow.” The irony hung between them like perfume.

Jack: “You really think a professional network can survive when everyone uses it for emotional validation?”

Jeeny: “It already is. Look around — authenticity sells now. Companies market empathy. Leaders post their failures like trophies. Maybe this is the future — vulnerability as credibility.”

Jack: “You call that transparency. I call it performance art.”

Jeeny: “Performance or not, it’s still pushing people to drop the mask a little. And maybe that’s worth something.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the glass walls. The storm clouds had begun to gather above the skyline — subtle, slow, inevitable.

Jack leaned back, arms crossed. His voice softened.

Jack: “You know what it is, Jeeny? It’s not the posts themselves. It’s the hunger behind them. Everyone wants to be seen. Even in the most professional place, that need doesn’t go away. And maybe that’s what frightens me.”

Jeeny: “Why?”

Jack: “Because it means we can’t separate identity from image anymore. We’ve built entire careers on how we appear, not what we do.”

Jeeny: “But hasn’t that always been true? Just now, the stage is digital. The applause is algorithmic.”

Host: The rain began to fall, faintly first — a light tapping that seemed to punctuate their words.

Jack: “Then what happens to authenticity when everyone’s performing authenticity?”

Jeeny: “It becomes harder. But not impossible. The people who mean what they say — you can still feel it. The tone, the silence, the humility. Realness still cuts through.”

Host: The room dimmed slightly as the storm gathered strength. Raindrops clung to the windows like unspoken thoughts.

Jack stared at his screen again — the message still open. He hovered over the “Delete” button.

Jeeny watched quietly, then smiled.

Jeeny: “So what will you do?”

Jack: “I’ll reply.”

Jeeny raised an eyebrow.

Jeeny: “Seriously?”

Jack: “Yes. Professionally. I’ll thank him for his interest — in networking. Not my eyes.”

Host: Jeeny laughed, a soft, bright sound that broke the tension like sunlight through clouds.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, that’s progress. Humor without cynicism.”

Jack: “It’s survival. Wittgenstein would call it perspective.”

Jeeny: “And Gerzema would call it good stewardship.”

Jack: “And Newman?”

Jeeny: “She’d probably just roll her eyes and remind us this isn’t Tinder.”

Host: The storm outside reached its crescendo, the windows vibrating softly with the sound of rain. The office lights flickered, throwing brief flashes across their faces — two professionals, two philosophies, both holding a sliver of truth.

Jack: “Maybe Newman’s right — LinkedIn isn’t a dating site. But maybe it’s also not just a professional one anymore. Maybe it’s a mirror — showing us the blur between ambition and loneliness.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And maybe the goal isn’t to stop the blur, but to navigate it with decency.”

Jack: “You mean transparency, honesty, kindness…”

Jeeny: “Even humor. They work everywhere — even online.”

Host: The rain slowed. The thunder rolled away. The air smelled of ozone and new beginnings.

Jack closed his laptop.

Jeeny: “Heading out?”

Jack: “Yeah. Going to walk in the rain a bit. Might clear the digital noise out of my head.”

Jeeny: “Mind if I join?”

Jack: “Only if you promise not to post about it on LinkedIn.”

Jeeny: “Deal.”

Host: They walked toward the elevator, their reflections flickering in the glass like fading echoes of the modern world — two souls still learning how to stay human inside a machine of connection.

Outside, the rain began to lift, the city gleaming — professional, personal, alive.

And somewhere in that quiet intersection between ambition and affection, the line blurred — just enough to feel real.