My two daughters live on Facebook, and social media is their mode

Host: The night was quiet, wrapped in the pale blue glow of screens. The city below was asleep, but on the seventh floor of a glass apartment, the air buzzed faintly with digital hums — the sound of notifications, scrolls, and silence. A television flickered in the corner, showing muted faces that spoke without voice. Outside, a light rain tapped against the windows, as if trying to reach in.

Jack sat at the table, a laptop open before him, its light cutting a sharp line across his face. His grey eyes reflected pixels, not stars. Jeeny stood by the window, her arms crossed, watching the rain slide down the glass, her reflection merging with the night.

Host: Between them lay a coffee mug, half-empty, and a phone that vibrated with new messages, unseen and unanswered.

Jeeny: “You ever notice, Jack, how people don’t talk anymore? They just post, share, and react. It’s like words have been replaced by thumbs and emojis.”

Jack: “They’re still talking, Jeeny. Just in a different language. You can’t stop the world from evolving. Social media is just the next step — communication without boundaries.”

Jeeny: “Without boundaries, yes. But also without depth. Tony Goldwyn once said, ‘My two daughters live on Facebook, and social media is their mode of communication.’ It wasn’t admiration, Jack. It was concern. Because when your life is filtered through a screen, you forget how to feel it.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, the streetlights outside blurring into ribbons of gold. Jeeny’s voice trembled — not from anger, but from something softer, like sadness dressed in hope.

Jack: “You’re romanticizing the past. You think people were more real before the internet? They were just quieter about their loneliness. Now it’s visible. Shared. Maybe that’s better.”

Jeeny: “Visible doesn’t mean understood. It’s a mirage — a crowd where everyone’s alone. You can have five thousand friends, and still no one who will look up when you cry.”

Jack: “You make it sound tragic, but it’s just different. People used to write letters — now they message. They used to gather in town squares — now they gather in digital ones. Connection is connection, no matter the medium.”

Jeeny: “But letters had weight. You’d wait days to receive one, and it meant something. A message is gone before your eyes even feel it. You can’t build intimacy out of speed.”

Host: The lights dimmed as a passing cloud covered the moon. Jack leaned back, his jaw tense, his fingers tapping the table. The hum of the laptop fan filled the room — a low, steady heartbeat of the modern world.

Jack: “So what? We should all go back to writing letters by candlelight? You can’t expect the world to stand still just because you miss the sound of voices.”

Jeeny: “I don’t want it to stand still. I just want it to remember. To remember what it means to listen — not just hear, to see, not just look. People speak in status updates, but their souls are silent.”

Jack: “You think it’s the medium that killed the soul? No, Jeeny. It’s the human choice behind it. The internet didn’t make us shallow — we did. Social media is just a mirror.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time to break that mirror.”

Host: The room fell silent, except for the rain. The clock ticked with soft indifference, as if time itself refused to take sides. Jack’s eyes met Jeeny’s — a long, weighted gaze, filled with history.

Jack: “You sound like my grandmother. She used to say, ‘If you live in the machine, you forget the sky.’ Funny thing is, she used to watch TV all day.”

Jeeny: “That’s the difference, Jack. The TV talked to her. Social media makes you talk to yourself.”

Host: A small smile cracked across Jack’s face, a shadow of humor mixed with tiredness.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the point. Maybe we’re all trying to hear our own echoes — make sure we still exist.”

Jeeny: “Existence isn’t proven by visibility, Jack. It’s felt in connection — the kind you can’t measure with likes.”

Jack: “But you can’t deny the power of reach. Think about it — a single tweet can ignite a movement, a video can topple a government, a post can save a life. Isn’t that worth something?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But for every voice that’s heard, there are a thousand that are drowned. Noise doesn’t equal understanding. We’ve confused exposure with empathy.”

Host: The rain eased. The window now glistened with tiny droplets, like tears frozen mid-fall. Jack stood, walking toward the window. His reflection merged with Jeeny’s, their faces side by side — two ghosts in the glass.

Jack: “You think they’re lost, don’t you? The ones who live online.”

Jeeny: “Not lost. Just… disconnected. They’re searching, Jack — for validation, for meaning, for love. But they’ve forgotten to look up from their screens long enough to find it.”

Jack: “Maybe they’re just finding it in new ways. Maybe that’s what scares you — that humanity is changing.”

Jeeny: “It’s not change that scares me. It’s emptiness disguised as connection.”

Host: A flash of lightning lit the room, revealing their faces — his hard, hers soft, both equally tired. The thunder followed, a deep rumble, like the world sighing through wires.

Jack: “You talk like we’re all becoming machines.”

Jeeny: “Aren’t we? We scroll, we click, we consume, we perform. Every moment is recorded, rated, replayed. Even grief is now a post.”

Jack: “But that’s the world now. You can’t live offline anymore. Jobs, news, politics, relationships — it’s all there. If you’re not connected, you’re invisible.”

Jeeny: “Maybe invisibility isn’t so bad. It’s where truth hides. Where you can still hear your own thoughts.”

Host: The clock struck midnight. The room felt heavier, as if gravity itself had grown thick. Jack’s voice softened, almost a whisper.

Jack: “Do you ever think… maybe they’re happier like that? The ones who live inside the feed? They don’t have to face the awkwardness of real conversation, the mess of feelings. It’s all… cleaner.”

Jeeny: “Cleaner, yes. But not alive. A text can’t hold your hand, Jack. A comment can’t wipe your tears. You can’t hug through a screen.”

Jack: “You’d be surprised. Have you seen those VR funerals in Japan? People grieving through avatars, hugging their lost loved ones made of light. Maybe that’s the future — we’ll find ways to make even absence interactive.”

Jeeny: “And when that happens… what’s left of being human?”

Host: The rain stopped. A silence hung — long, fragile, complete. Jeeny turned away from the window, walking toward the table. She picked up the phone, its screen still glowing, and placed it face down.

Jeeny: “Maybe being human isn’t about how we communicate, Jack. Maybe it’s about how we remember each other when the screen goes dark.”

Jack: “And maybe it’s about how we use the light while it’s still on.”

Host: The tension eased — not resolved, but understood. Two truths, standing side by side, neither right nor wrong. The world outside began to clear, the clouds parting to reveal a thin silver moon.

Jack reached for his laptop, then closed it slowly. The click echoed like a door shutting gently on the past.

Jeeny smiled, a small, tired smile, but real.

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not about living online or offline. Maybe it’s about not forgetting who we are — on either side of the screen.”

Host: The moonlight spilled across their faces, soft and equal, erasing the shadows. The city below began to breathe again, its lights flickering like stars reborn in glass. And for a moment — brief, fragile, and infinite — the world felt connected again.