Perhaps the people of Twitter are more amenable to your babbling

Host: The bar’s lights were low, amber and heavy, throwing long shadows over empty glasses and the faint glow of a dozen forgotten phones. The rain outside painted the windows in streaks, distorting the city into watercolor blurs of blue and gold.

A quiet hum filled the room — not of conversation, but of screens. Every face glowed with artificial light, thumbs twitching like they were keeping time with an invisible metronome.

At a corner table, Jack and Jeeny sat opposite one another — two souls half-present in the digital age. Jeeny’s phone lay untouched beside her coffee. Jack’s screen, however, pulsed with the endless scroll of notifications — likes, mentions, and noise disguised as meaning.

Jack: “Robert Rinder said, ‘Perhaps the people of Twitter are more amenable to your babbling than your immediate family, but that doesn't necessarily make digital communication a beneficial distraction when we have an immediate social environment.’ He sounds like every critic who doesn’t get how connection works now.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe he’s one of the few who remembers how it used to.”

Host: The neon sign above the bar buzzed faintly, flickering like a dying heartbeat. A man laughed alone at something on his phone. No one looked up.

Jack: “Come on, Jeeny. Digital communication is an environment now. Twitter, TikTok, messages — that’s where people live. That’s where they find their tribe.”

Jeeny: “A tribe that disappears when you close your app. You mistake attention for connection, Jack. Those aren’t the same thing.”

Jack: “They’re close enough. What’s the difference between a friend online and one sitting here, if both listen to what you say?”

Jeeny: “Listening and hearing aren’t the same either.”

Host: Her words lingered in the air, soft but sharp, cutting through the hum of rain and electric chatter. Jack’s eyes stayed on his screen, the reflection of endless updates flickering in his pupils.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how people tweet their pain now instead of talking about it? Like confession’s become performance?”

Jack: “Or maybe performance is the new confession. We live out loud now. That’s the whole point of social media — transparency.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s exhibition. Transparency is truth shared with trust. Exhibition is truth packaged for applause.”

Jack: “You make it sound like every post is a cry for validation.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes it is. Sometimes it’s loneliness trying to dress itself up as relevance.”

Host: A brief silence. The sound of the espresso machine hissed like static. Outside, thunder rolled — soft, distant, but insistent.

Jack: “You act like you’re above it. But you post too. You share quotes, photos, little pieces of yourself.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But I don’t mistake the glow of a screen for warmth.”

Jack: “You think the people behind those screens aren’t real?”

Jeeny: “I think they’re filtered. Curated. We present fragments of ourselves and call it honesty. But when was the last time you actually looked someone in the eye while saying what you post?”

Host: Jack shifted uncomfortably. His thumb hovered over his phone before he finally set it face-down on the table.

Jack: “I share because it’s easier. No interruptions. No judgment. Online, I can say what I can’t in person.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s easier because it’s safer. No real eyes. No silence to fill. No consequences. You get to choose who sees your vulnerability and when. But in real life, vulnerability chooses you.”

Jack: “So what, we should all just go back to letter-writing? Pretend Twitter doesn’t exist?”

Jeeny: “No. But maybe we should stop pretending it’s the same thing as community.”

Host: The rain softened to a drizzle. The world outside seemed slower, as if pausing to listen. The faint murmur of other patrons blurred into background static.

Jack: “You know what Twitter gives people that real life doesn’t? Audience. Everyone wants to be heard, Jeeny. Maybe Rinder’s wrong — maybe it is beneficial to have that outlet.”

Jeeny: “Being heard is wonderful. But what good is it if no one’s really listening? An audience isn’t the same as empathy. It’s noise with punctuation.”

Jack: “You think no one online cares?”

Jeeny: “I think caring takes time, Jack. Attention spans don’t stretch that far anymore. We scroll through grief like headlines. We retweet heartbreak and call it compassion.”

Host: The neon outside flickered again — pink, then blue, then out. The room dimmed to a soft amber hum.

Jeeny: “We talk to thousands of people and forget how to talk to one.”

Jack: “Maybe because one person’s more dangerous. They can see the parts of you that hashtags can’t fix.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Digital connection shields you from that — from the trembling voice, the awkward pause, the unspoken truth in someone’s eyes. That’s what Rinder meant. We’ve mistaken constant communication for connection.”

Jack: “Maybe we’ve just evolved. Maybe the new intimacy is written in text.”

Jeeny: “Then why do we still feel lonelier than ever?”

Host: Jack didn’t answer. His phone buzzed once. Then again. He ignored it. The silence between them was sudden — raw, electric, real.

Jeeny reached across the table, resting her hand on his. A small gesture, but it landed with the gravity of something ancient — a touch. Human, unfiltered, immediate.

Jeeny: “See? No tweet could replace that.”

Jack: “Maybe not. But it also doesn’t disappear when the power goes out.”

Jeeny: “You don’t need power for presence.”

Host: The rain stopped. The sound of dripping from the roof filled the quiet like punctuation. Outside, the city shimmered — wet, reflective, alive.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? I have thousands of followers. But right now, this feels like the first real conversation I’ve had in weeks.”

Jeeny: “Because it is.”

Jack: “So maybe Rinder’s right. Maybe the people of Twitter like my babbling more than my family. Maybe that’s the problem.”

Jeeny: “They like your words. But your family — your real people — they love your silence too. They see what doesn’t need to be posted.”

Host: Jack looked at his phone one last time. Then, slowly, he turned it off. The screen went dark — a small, quiet death of noise.

Jack: “You think we can ever go back? To before all this?”

Jeeny: “No. But we can learn to be human again inside it.”

Jack: “How?”

Jeeny: “By remembering that connection isn’t found in pixels — it’s made in pauses.”

Host: Her words fell gently, like the last drops of rain. Jack nodded, his face softening — not convinced, but open. The bar lights glowed warmer now, less machine, more memory.

They sat there in silence — two people in a world obsessed with words, finally learning the value of none.

And outside, the city hummed on — bright, buzzing, infinite — while inside, two voices rediscovered what it meant to simply be.

Because, as Robert Rinder warned, the digital world can echo forever —
but it’s only in the living, breathing presence of another soul
that we finally remember what listening truly means.