My biggest piece of advice when it comes to bullying is to have

Host: The evening settled over the city like a heavy sigh. In a quiet corner of a schoolyard café, the faint echo of children’s laughter faded into the dusk. The walls were lined with posters of smiling faces—students from another time. The light from the lamps above flickered softly, casting shadows that seemed to move with the memory of what had been said and unsaid within these walls. Jack sat near the window, his eyes fixed on the street, his fingers tapping lightly on a half-empty cup of coffee. Jeeny sat across from him, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea, her gaze steady, warm, and unyielding.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, I don’t think talking about it changes much. Bullies don’t stop because someone talks—they stop because someone makes them stop.”

Jeeny: “And what happens when no one speaks, Jack? When everyone just endures in silence? Pain grows like mold in the dark. Lizzie Velasquez said it best—‘My biggest piece of advice when it comes to bullying is to have an open communication about it.’ Silence is the bully’s favorite weapon.”

Host: The rain began to tap against the window, a gentle rhythm marking each word between them. Jack’s jaw tightened; he looked like a man wrestling not with Jeeny’s words, but with something long buried beneath his calm exterior.

Jack: “Communication sounds idealistic. But in reality, kids don’t want to expose themselves. Adults don’t either. You speak, and suddenly, you’re labeled as weak, as fragile, as a problem to be fixed. The world rewards strength, not vulnerability.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly the problem, Jack. We’ve mistaken silence for strength. We’ve built a culture that praises people for pretending they’re fine. Look at Lizzie Velasquez herself—she was bullied online, mocked for her appearance, dehumanized by millions. And yet, what changed the narrative wasn’t her hiding—it was her speaking. Her courage to be open.”

Host: A bus passed outside, its headlights flashing briefly through the rain-smeared glass, illuminating the creases on Jack’s forehead. He exhaled slowly, as though weighing the truth of her words against the heaviness of his own past.

Jack: “You talk as if everyone can be Lizzie. But most people don’t have the strength to stand in front of the world and bare their pain. Open communication might work for the brave few, but the rest? They get crushed. Sometimes silence is survival.”

Jeeny: “But Jack—don’t you see? Even silence is a form of communication. It’s a cry for help no one hears. When we don’t create safe spaces for people to talk, we force them into that silence. The solution isn’t to stay quiet—it’s to build a world where they can speak.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled slightly, not from weakness, but from the weight of conviction. The steam from her tea curled upward like a thin veil, blurring the space between them.

Jack: “You’re assuming people will listen. They don’t. Schools have anti-bullying policies plastered on their walls, companies preach about inclusion—and still, people suffer in the shadows. Words are cheap.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the words need to be real, not slogans. Remember when Norway introduced ‘zero tolerance’ programs in schools? It worked—not because of policies, but because teachers and students began to talk, really talk. They turned confrontation into dialogue. Communication doesn’t fix everything, but it starts everything.”

Host: The air between them thickened with unspoken histories. Jack’s eyes softened, and for a moment, the cynical edge in his voice wavered.

Jack: “You sound like you’ve seen this work firsthand.”

Jeeny: “I have. My younger brother—he was bullied for being too quiet, too different. He never told anyone. When he finally spoke, it wasn’t to ask for help. It was in a note. He almost didn’t make it through that year. If someone—anyone—had asked him, ‘Are you okay?’ maybe things would’ve been different.”

Host: Her voice cracked, and the room fell into a long, aching silence. Outside, the rain turned into a steady pour, drumming against the window like a second heartbeat. Jack looked away, blinking hard, his reflection in the glass trembling with the storm outside.

Jack: “I get it. I really do. When I was a kid, I got into fights—not because I liked them, but because it was easier to throw a punch than admit I was scared. My father told me, ‘Real men don’t talk about their pain.’ Maybe I never stopped believing that.”

Jeeny: “And that’s exactly why this quote matters, Jack. Open communication isn’t just about bullying—it’s about unlearning that kind of silence. It’s about rewriting the script.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his hands gripping the edge of the table, the wood creaking under the pressure. His eyes, once hard, now seemed like windows to something breaking open inside.

Jack: “So you think the world changes through words?”

Jeeny: “Not through words alone—through honesty. Through the courage it takes to let someone else see you, really see you. That’s where healing begins.”

Jack: “And what if that honesty gets you hurt again?”

Jeeny: “Then at least you’re not alone in the dark anymore.”

Host: The sound of those words lingered in the air, mingling with the whisper of the rain. Jack’s fingers stilled. He looked at her—not as an opponent in debate, but as someone holding out a lifeline.

Jack: “You make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not simple. It’s human. That’s why it’s hard.”

Host: The rain began to ease, the sky opening to a pale, silvery light. A group of students hurried past the café, their laughter breaking through the melancholy air. Jack followed them with his eyes, and a faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips.

Jack: “You know, I used to think silence made me strong. But maybe it just made me invisible.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think... maybe strength is letting someone hear you before it’s too late.”

Host: The moment hung there—fragile, luminous, like the first glimmer of dawn after a long storm. Jeeny reached across the table, resting her hand on his. No words were needed. The rain stopped completely, leaving the world washed clean.

Jeeny: “That’s what Lizzie meant, Jack. Open communication isn’t just advice—it’s survival. It’s how we remind each other we’re still here.”

Jack: “Maybe... maybe it’s time I start talking.”

Host: The camera would have lingered on their hands, the steam rising between them, the streetlights flickering back to life. The city outside felt new, as if even its stones had listened. In the reflection of the window, two faces—one scarred by silence, the other lit by hope—stared back at each other.

And in that quiet, open space, between words and understanding, the truth of Lizzie Velasquez’s message lived—not as theory, but as a heartbeat shared between two people brave enough to speak.