Never talk to a client about architecture. Talk to him about his

The evening light stretched thin across the empty street, the dim hum of a city drifting in from somewhere far off. The air was still, thick with the residue of a summer storm that had passed hours ago, leaving the ground slick and black with moisture. A faint glow of orange and purple touched the horizon. In a quiet corner of a small café, Jack leaned forward at the table, the pale light casting sharp shadows across his face. His grey eyes glinted, tired but determined, his fingers tracing the rim of his cup. Jeeny sat across from him, the quiet hum of the world outside brushing against the soft murmur of her breathing. She absentmindedly twirled a strand of her long black hair, her deep brown eyes distant, searching for words.

Host: The air feels thick with the weight of something unsaid, a sense of tension almost tangible in the space between them. Jack stares at her for a moment, but she doesn’t meet his gaze. Then, she speaks — her voice soft, but cutting through the silence.

Jeeny: “You know, I never understood how you could say something like that... Never talk to a client about architecture. Talk to him about his children. Is that really how you think we should treat people? With such coldness, such calculations?”

Jack: His fingers pause on the edge of his cup, and he raises an eyebrow. His voice is a mixture of amusement and something sharper. “You think it’s about coldness, Jeeny? It’s about survival. It’s about reading people, understanding them, and talking in a way that gets you what you need. What does talking about a child’s happiness have to do with a building? Nothing. But it opens doors, gets people to trust you.”

Jeeny: She shakes her head, her hands tightening on her cup as if the porcelain could anchor her thoughts. “And that’s what you believe? That we should reduce humanity to mere transactions? To pandering to whatever fragile egos we find? It’s not about survival, Jack. It’s about connection. Real connection. When did we start thinking that building a wall between us and the people we serve would ever lead to anything meaningful?”

Host: A shadow falls across Jeeny’s face, her expression softened by something deeper than frustration. Her gaze lifts slightly, searching for the right words, as if every syllable could break open the floodgates of her conviction.

Jack: He leans back in his chair, his voice low but steady. “It’s not a wall, Jeeny. It’s a shield. Emotion makes us vulnerable. People are unpredictable, irrational. They don’t listen to logic, to your high-minded ideals. The world’s full of people who’ll use your empathy against you. You’re not helping anyone if you’re too busy feeling their pain.”

Jeeny: Her lips tremble slightly, and she leans forward, her voice quiet but filled with an intensity that cannot be ignored. “But what about authenticity? Genuine connections? If we’re not willing to care, to take the time to truly understand people, then what’s the point? Architecture, for example, isn’t just about building structures. It’s about creating spaces that speak to the soul, that connect to the heart. How can we do that if we’re too afraid to listen?”

Host: The café feels suddenly warmer, though the world outside still carries the weight of the distant storm. Jack’s fingers tighten around the cup as he meets her gaze — there’s a flicker of something in his eyes, a battle between his doubts and the part of him that recognizes the truth in her words.

Jack: His voice grows sharp. “You’re romanticizing it, Jeeny. This isn’t some fairy tale. People don’t care about your idealistic visions. You think the world is going to magically change because you’re trying to be kind? The harsh reality is that comfort doesn’t come from your warm words. It comes from understanding the rules, from manipulating them in your favor. That’s how things get done.”

Jeeny: Her voice rises, trembling with frustration, her hands shaking now. “And that’s the problem, Jack. Rules? Is that what you’re really trying to sell? This obsession with controlling everything, with reducing every moment to a game of strategy? People are more than that. We’re more than just playing some game of chess. Empathy doesn’t weaken you, it strengthens you. If we can’t build relationships based on trust and understanding, then what’s the point? We’ll never get anywhere, not in a meaningful way.”

Host: The silence that follows feels almost physical, as if the air between them is charged. The tension hangs thick. Jack looks down for a long moment, his hands gripping the cup so tightly his knuckles are white. His grey eyes soften just a fraction.

Jack: “I didn’t say it’s about winning, Jeeny. I just… I just want to know that when I speak, people will hear me. I’ve seen too many people who let their hearts lead them into ruin. I don’t want to be one of them.”

Jeeny: She pauses, her voice gentler now, touched by something vulnerable. “And I don’t want to see you lose who you are, Jack. Walls only make us more alone. Maybe it’s not about winning or losing, but about finding common ground. About giving people a piece of yourself without fear. Do you really believe that the world is only a place for survival, or can it be something more — something shared?”

Host: Jack looks at her then, really looking, as if for the first time. The light from the window catches the edges of his features, casting them in soft shadow, a quiet storm of thoughts passing across his face.

Jack: He sighs, his voice softening with an almost reluctant acceptance. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe there’s a balance between the two. Maybe it’s not just about being safe, but about being real, too. I don’t know if I can ever stop seeing the world as a game, but… I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to start listening more.”

Jeeny: A small, quiet smile touches her lips, a fleeting moment of triumph. “That’s all I’m asking for, Jack. Just listen. Really listen. And don’t be afraid to share what’s inside.”

Host: The air between them softens, the intensity fading. The soft light of the setting sun now feels like a benediction, and the sound of distant traffic seems less oppressive. Outside, the first star appears in the sky, its faint glow a quiet reminder that there is always hope, even in the most unpredictable of realities.