Raising awareness on the most pressing environmental issues of

Host:
The harbor was still beneath a steel-colored dawn, its waters reflecting the pale ghosts of ships and the faint hum of a city waking up too slowly to notice the tide. A thin mist moved across the bay, blurring the line between sea and sky until it seemed the world itself was undecided where to begin.

The air carried the faint smell of salt, diesel, and driftwood—a perfume of civilization clinging to what remained of nature.

At the edge of the pier stood Jack, his hands buried in the pockets of his coat, his eyes fixed on the horizon. He had that quiet, stoic stillness of a man who saw too far and too long. Behind him, the sound of footsteps echoed—soft but sure—until Jeeny appeared, her hair pulled back by the wind, her face lit by the fragile gold of early light.

In her hands, she carried a stack of pamphlets, their corners slightly damp from the sea air. She set them down beside him, her gaze following his out toward the water.

Jeeny:
“Leonardo DiCaprio once said, ‘Raising awareness on the most pressing environmental issues of our time is more important than ever.’”

Her voice trembled slightly, though not with fear—rather with the ache of conviction. “He’s right, Jack. Awareness isn’t just talk—it’s the beginning of everything. Without it, nothing changes.”

Jack:
He didn’t move right away. When he spoke, his voice was low, weathered like driftwood. “Awareness?” He gave a soft, bitter laugh. “That’s the currency of our generation. Everyone’s aware, Jeeny. They’re aware while they scroll, while they shop, while they fly across oceans for climate conferences. Awareness doesn’t save the planet. It just makes people feel less guilty about watching it die.”

Host:
The wind shifted, carrying the sharp cry of a gull overhead. The sunlight caught the waves, turning them into shards of silver. Jeeny turned toward him, her expression steady, her eyes lit with a soft defiance.

Jeeny:
“You think cynicism is realism, but it’s not,” she said. “It’s surrender. And I don’t believe in surrender, Jack. Awareness isn’t the end—it’s the spark. People can’t change what they refuse to see. You can’t love what you don’t understand.”

Jack:
He turned to face her then, his grey eyes narrowing slightly. “And you think they’ll understand just because someone tells them to? We’ve been raising awareness for fifty years. Posters, documentaries, protests. People nod, they donate, they hashtag. But when it’s time to sacrifice comfort—when the awareness needs to become action—they turn away.”

Host:
Her fingers tightened around the edges of one of the pamphlets until it began to crumple. The silence between them stretched thin, fragile, the kind that always comes before truth.

Jeeny:
“Maybe you’re right,” she said softly. “But I’d rather raise awareness and be ignored than stay silent and be complicit. You call it naïve—I call it necessary.”

Jack:
“Necessary doesn’t mean effective,” he replied. “You think another march, another speech, another photo of a starving polar bear changes anything? It’s theater, Jeeny. We’ve turned apocalypse into entertainment.”

Jeeny:
Her eyes flashed, her voice rising now—not in anger, but in sorrow that felt older than either of them. “No, Jack. We’ve turned ignorance into a lifestyle. You’re right—awareness alone isn’t enough. But indifference? That’s the end of everything.”

Host:
The light brightened, spilling across their faces, illuminating the tension like morning on a battlefield. Jack looked away, his jaw tightening, the muscles beneath his coat collar shifting like tectonic plates.

He reached down and picked up one of the pamphlets, unfolding it carefully. The print was simple: a photo of the ocean, vast and shimmering, with a line of text beneath—“The Earth is not dying. It’s being killed, and those killing it have names.”

Jack:
He sighed, rubbing his thumb across the edge of the page. “You think people want to see this? You think they want to be reminded they’re the villain in their own story?”

Jeeny:
“Maybe they don’t,” she said quietly. “But heroes are born from discomfort. Awareness hurts, and it should. That’s how you know it’s working.”

Host:
The fog began to lift in slow ribbons, revealing the faint outlines of a distant island, green and gold against the horizon. The world was waking up, unaware of its own fragility.

Jack:
“You really think the world can wake up in time?” he asked. “You think awareness alone can stop the fire we started?”

Jeeny:
She shook her head. “Not alone. But it’s the first breath before the scream, Jack. You can’t fight what you don’t first name.”

Host:
A long pause followed. Jack’s gaze softened, his earlier defiance thinning into reflection. Somewhere behind them, the faint sound of children’s voices rose—the local school starting their morning walk by the bay. Their laughter mingled with the sound of waves, innocent and brief, like the sound of a future not yet lost.

Jack:
“You ever wonder if it’s too late?” he asked quietly. “If awareness is just a way of marking the time before collapse?”

Jeeny:
She smiled—sad, luminous. “Of course. But you don’t plant seeds because you’re certain of spring. You plant them because you believe the earth remembers how to grow.”

Host:
The sun had risen fully now, washing the harbor in light. The ships’ hulls gleamed, and the sea caught every shimmer, reflecting it back like hope in motion.

Jack:
“Maybe I envy that faith of yours,” he said. “That belief that words still matter.”

Jeeny:
“They always matter,” she said. “Every word is a ripple. You never know how far one will reach.”

Host:
A gull swooped low, its shadow cutting across the pier as the tide began to turn. Jack looked down at the pamphlet again, then back at Jeeny. For a moment, something almost like resolve flickered behind his eyes.

Jack:
“Alright,” he said, voice low but firm. “Let’s raise awareness then. But let’s make it real. No slogans. No guilt. Just truth.”

Jeeny:
“That’s all I’ve ever wanted,” she whispered. “Truth is the root of change.”

Host:
The camera widened, capturing them both standing at the edge of the world—their silhouettes against the shining sea. The wind lifted the pamphlets from the stack, scattering them like white birds across the water, their messages floating outward on invisible currents.

And as the scene faded into the light, Leonardo DiCaprio’s words seemed to echo over the tide, not as warning, but as vow:

That awareness is not the end, but the beginning—
the fragile spark before the flame,
the whisper that becomes a rising chorus,
and the truth that dares to say,
the Earth is still listening.