Most people want the convenience of the Internet far more than

Host: The coffee shop was dim and modern — all metal, glass, and the gentle hum of a dozen laptop fans. Outside, the city’s lights trembled on wet pavement; a steady drizzle blurred everything into neon watercolor. The place was full, yet no one spoke — just the soft clatter of keys and the occasional hiss of the espresso machine.

Jack sat near the window, his face half-lit by the cold glow of his screen. Jeeny was across from him, phone in hand, scrolling through a stream of headlines, pictures, and confessions from strangers. Between them, two untouched cappuccinos sat cooling in silence.

On Jack’s tablet, a line from an article glowed in sharp black type:
“Most people want the convenience of the Internet far more than they want the private spaces that older forms of communication protected.” — Ross Douthat.

Jeeny: without looking up “You ever wonder if we’ve traded our souls for signal strength?”

Jack: smirking faintly “You’re quoting yourself again.”

Jeeny: sets her phone down “No. I’m quoting every exhausted person on this planet who can’t remember the last time they were unreachable.”

Jack: “We’re all reachable now. Isn’t that supposed to mean connection?”

Jeeny: “No. It means exposure.”

Host: The rain outside hit the window in rhythmic bursts, the sound filling the spaces their words left empty. A car passed, its reflection slicing briefly across the table — two faces illuminated, then gone again.

Jack: “You know, Douthat’s right. People don’t want privacy. They want convenience — and confession. We’ve made performance our second skin.”

Jeeny: “That’s not what we wanted. We wanted to be known — but we forgot that being known online is the same as being consumed.”

Jack: “You make it sound predatory.”

Jeeny: “It is. The Internet doesn’t listen. It archives.”

Jack: leaning back “You sound like someone who’s been burned by it.”

Jeeny: “Haven’t we all?”

Host: Her eyes flickered — a flash of something fragile beneath the defiance. Jack followed her gaze to the people around them — faces glowing with blue light, expressions blank, attention fractured. It felt less like a café and more like a chapel of silent worshippers praying to their own reflection.

Jeeny: “You know what we lost? The pause. Letters took time. Even phone calls — you had to gather yourself before you spoke. Now it’s instant. Everything’s reaction. No reflection.”

Jack: “So convenience killed contemplation.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We don’t live with our thoughts anymore. We outsource them to timelines.”

Jack: “But you can’t deny it’s progress. The world talks faster now — information moves like lightning. That’s power.”

Jeeny: softly “It’s noise.”

Host: Her voice cut through the quiet murmur of the café — not loud, but clear enough to make Jack stop scrolling. The screenlight flickered against his face, making him look half-real, half-digital — a man caught between worlds.

Jack: “You know, I think privacy used to mean solitude. Now it just means invisibility — and nobody wants to feel invisible.”

Jeeny: “That’s the trap. We confuse visibility with value. But the more we show, the less we keep.”

Jack: “So what are we supposed to do? Go off-grid? Write letters again?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not letters. But maybe silence. Maybe remembering that not every thought deserves an audience.”

Jack: “Try telling that to a generation raised on sharing.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Maybe they’ll learn. The Internet’s fast, but wisdom’s still slow.”

Host: The barista called out an order, her voice echoing in the air before fading into the click of more keyboards. A couple by the counter took a selfie; their laughter lasted longer than their attention.

Jeeny: “You know, it’s not that I hate the Internet. It’s that I miss mystery. There was something sacred about not knowing everything — about earning knowledge, not downloading it.”

Jack: “Mystery doesn’t sell anymore. Certainty does.”

Jeeny: “Then we’re bankrupt.”

Jack: after a pause “Maybe. But at least we’re connected.”

Jeeny: “Are we, though? Or are we just synchronized?”

Host: The rain softened outside, blurring the skyline into something dreamlike. Jack closed his laptop, the screen going dark — suddenly, he could see her clearly again, not through the cold glass of reflection, but through the warmth of presence.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? We talk about losing privacy like it was stolen from us. But we gave it away — one convenience at a time.”

Jeeny: “Because it didn’t feel like loss. It felt like belonging.”

Jack: “And now?”

Jeeny: “Now belonging feels like surveillance.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s the price of global intimacy.”

Jeeny: “Then intimacy isn’t what it used to be.”

Host: The café lights flickered as the rain eased. The hum of Wi-Fi routers and the tapping of keys returned, steady, relentless. Jeeny’s phone buzzed on the table — a message from someone unseen. She ignored it.

Jack: “You think there’s a way back?”

Jeeny: quietly “No. Only a way forward. But maybe forward means smaller — more intentional. Less sharing, more seeing.”

Jack: “That’s poetic.”

Jeeny: “It’s survival.”

Jack: “So what do we do? Start with each other?”

Jeeny: “Yeah. Maybe that’s the revolution — to look up.”

Host: She smiled, and for a moment, it felt like the world around them slowed — like connection wasn’t about signal or bandwidth, but presence. The neon from the street outside reflected on the wet window, glowing red and gold, casting them in a warm, flickering halo.

Jeeny: softly “You know, maybe what Douthat meant wasn’t just about privacy. Maybe he was warning us — that convenience without care turns into exposure without empathy.”

Jack: “And maybe we’ve mistaken connection for communion.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We talk more, but understand less.”

Jack: “And we feel seen, but not known.”

Jeeny: “And the worst part? We’ve learned to accept that as enough.”

Host: A hush fell over the café, the kind that only comes when truth settles between two people. Jack reached across the table, his hand brushing hers — a small, real gesture in a world of digital noise.

Outside, the rain had stopped. The street was quiet, the city’s reflection still shimmering in puddles that would soon dry — traces of connection, fragile but real.

Jack: “You think someday we’ll remember how to be alone again?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But only after we remember how to be together — really together.”

Host: The camera would pull back slowly, the two of them framed in the warm lamplight, surrounded by a world that never stops speaking.

And over the gentle hum of the city, Ross Douthat’s words would return, resonant and calm:

“Most people want the convenience of the Internet far more than they want the private spaces that older forms of communication protected.”

Because privacy was never just about silence —
it was about sanctuary.

And in the race for connection,
we forgot that the truest kind
was never wireless.