Pride definitely causes a lack of communication.

Host: The morning light leaked through the tall windows of a nearly empty café, cutting thin lines of gold across the tabletops. The air was thick with the faint smell of burnt coffee and something unspoken — the kind of silence that grows between people who used to talk easily.

Jack sat near the window, his fingers tapping against a chipped porcelain cup. His eyes, a grey storm beneath tired brows, followed the raindrops sliding down the glass. Jeeny walked in quietly, her coat still damp, her hair sticking to her cheeks. She paused, looked, and then sat across from him.

Outside, the city moved — blurred figures under umbrellas, cars passing, horns echoing like distant arguments. Inside, only two people faced each other, with a sentence between them like a wall.

Jeeny: “August Alsina once said, ‘Pride definitely causes a lack of communication.’ It’s strange how a single word — pride — can turn two people into strangers.”

Jack: “Pride’s not the enemy, Jeeny. It’s self-respect. If you don’t have it, people walk all over you.”

Host: The steam from Jeeny’s cup rose slowly, curling like a thin ghost between them. Her eyes — deep brown and still — searched his face, but he didn’t look up.

Jeeny: “There’s a difference between self-respect and ego, Jack. Pride doesn’t protect — it isolates. It makes you believe you’re right even when you’re lonely.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s the only shield that keeps you from being hurt again. You think people always want to understand, but they don’t. Sometimes they just want to win.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly what I mean. When winning becomes more important than understanding, you lose the person you’re talking to.”

Host: A bus roared past outside, the sound shaking the glass. Jack’s hand tightened around his cup. Jeeny tilted her head slightly, her voice softer now, but edged with quiet pain.

Jeeny: “Do you remember that night, Jack? We were arguing about something small — I don’t even remember what. But I do remember the silence afterward. It lasted weeks. That wasn’t about the argument. It was about pride.”

Jack: “You think it’s that simple? That I didn’t talk because of pride?”

Jeeny: “You didn’t talk because you didn’t want to bend first.”

Jack: “And you didn’t talk because you wanted me to.”

Host: The air between them shifted, heavy now with the weight of honesty. The rain intensified, a steady drumbeat against the window, like the rhythm of unresolved thoughts.

Jeeny: “You see? Even now, we’re both still waiting for the other to yield. That’s what pride does — it builds a fence out of words we never say.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s because saying them doesn’t always fix anything. You think people change just because we start talking?”

Jeeny: “No. But at least it opens the door. Pride locks it and throws away the key.”

Jack: “Or maybe it keeps you from knocking on doors that shouldn’t be opened.”

Jeeny: “You really believe that? That silence is strength?”

Jack: “Sometimes it’s survival.”

Host: Jeeny looked down, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup — slowly, absently — as if she were drawing circles around her thoughts. The light from outside reflected in her eyes, small golden flares of quiet defiance.

Jeeny: “Survival isn’t living, Jack. It’s just breathing while you wait for something to change. Pride keeps people alive, yes — but alone.”

Jack: “And what’s the alternative? Apologizing for things you didn’t do? Bending every time someone pushes you?”

Jeeny: “No. The alternative is listening. Being brave enough to say, ‘Maybe I don’t know everything.’ But pride doesn’t let us say that.”

Jack: “You call that bravery. I call it weakness.”

Jeeny: “And I call your kind of pride fear — the fear of being seen as wrong, or worse, as human.”

Host: Jack’s shoulders stiffened. His jaw tensed. He looked at her for the first time since she’d sat down, and in that look, something flickered — a memory, a wound, a truth he didn’t want to admit.

Jack: “You talk like you’ve never needed pride. Like you’ve never had to protect yourself.”

Jeeny: “Oh, I have. I used to wear it like armor. Until I realized it was just glass — it broke every time someone got close.”

Jack: “And what did you do? Just let people cut you?”

Jeeny: “No. I let them see me bleed. That’s the difference.”

Host: Her voice trembled, but it wasn’t weakness — it was something stronger, the sound of someone who’s already been through the fire. Jack’s eyes softened, almost imperceptibly.

Jeeny: “Look at history, Jack. Every war, every downfall — pride was the root. Nations collapsed, families split, lovers walked away — all because no one wanted to say ‘I was wrong.’”

Jack: “That’s not pride; that’s power. Those are people who wanted control.”

Jeeny: “Control is pride in disguise. It’s the same disease — just better dressed.”

Jack: “Then what are we supposed to do? Confess everything? Expose every flaw and hope for forgiveness?”

Jeeny: “Not confess — just communicate. Speak before silence becomes a wall you can’t climb.”

Host: A truck splashed through a puddle outside, the sound momentarily drowning their words. Inside, the air seemed to thin, as if both of them were running out of oxygen but unwilling to breathe first.

Jack: “You think it’s that easy, don’t you? Just talk, and suddenly the world makes sense.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. But silence makes it worse. Pride is like a dam — it keeps everything contained, but sooner or later, something breaks.”

Jack: “And when it does?”

Jeeny: “You drown. Or you learn to swim.”

Host: Jack’s eyes lowered to his cup, now cold, untouched. The reflection of Jeeny’s face floated faintly on the coffee’s dark surface — blurred, distant, but still there.

Jack: “You know… when you left, I told myself I didn’t care. That I was better off not explaining, not apologizing. But the truth is… I just didn’t know how.”

Jeeny: “That’s what pride does. It makes silence feel safer than honesty.”

Jack: “Maybe I thought if I stayed silent, I could still keep some kind of control. But all I really kept was the distance.”

Jeeny: “And that’s the cost, Jack. Pride gives you control but takes your connection.”

Host: The rain had stopped, but the window was still streaked with its memory. A thin ray of sunlight broke through the clouds, resting gently on their table. For the first time, they both looked at it — and at each other.

Jack: “So what now? What do we do when the silence finally cracks?”

Jeeny: “We start small. One word at a time. We listen. We admit that pride kept us quiet, but it doesn’t have to keep us apart.”

Jack: “You think it’s that simple?”

Jeeny: “No. But it’s the only way forward.”

Host: Jack smiled, a quiet, tired curve that carried both regret and relief. He reached across the table, his fingers barely touching hers. No grand gestures — just the fragile truth of two people trying to communicate again.

Jeeny: “See? That’s all it takes.”

Jack: “Pride might cause silence, Jeeny… but maybe humility is how we learn to speak again.”

Host: The sunlight widened, filling the café in a slow, golden glow. The rain had ended, but its echo lingered — soft, steady, like a heartbeat returning to rhythm.

And as they sat, the walls between them fell, not with noise, but with a quiet, human grace — the sound of pride finally letting go.