Social media websites are no longer performing an envisaged

Host: The night had fallen heavy over the city, draping every street in a quilt of neon light and digital reflection. Through the café’s window, giant billboards flickered like angry gods — each screen filled with faces, opinions, hashtags, and the endless scroll of human noise. The rain had begun, soft at first, then harder, tracing liquid veins across the glass.

Inside, Jack and Jeeny sat in their usual booth, the glow of Jack’s phone lighting his face — cold, artificial, blue. Jeeny’s phone lay turned downward, untouched beside her cup, her eyes fixed on the window, watching the world fight itself in reflections.

Between them sat a torn page, scrawled in Jack’s handwriting:
“Social media websites are no longer performing an envisaged function of creating a positive communication link among friends, family and professionals. It is a veritable battleground, where insults fly from the human quiver, damaging lives, destroying self-esteem and a person's sense of self-worth.” — Anthony Carmona.

The words hung between them like a mirror neither wanted to look into.

Jeeny: “It’s true, isn’t it? We built a world to connect — and all we did was find new ways to hurt each other.”

Jack: “That’s human nature, Jeeny. Give people a voice, and they’ll weaponize it. The internet just removed the distance — made cruelty efficient.”

Host: His tone was sharp, almost surgical, but beneath it was the fatigue of someone who’d spent too long staring into screens and finding monsters that looked too much like himself.

Jeeny: “It wasn’t meant to be this way. I remember when people shared photos of their children, birthdays, sunsets. It was a window into joy. Now it’s… like watching a slow war — waged with words, emojis, and silence.”

Jack: “You’re describing evolution. Idealism dies, then monetizes. These platforms didn’t kill kindness — they just revealed who we are without masks.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack.” She leaned forward, her voice trembling softly. “They didn’t reveal who we are — they distorted it. People online aren’t themselves. They’re what they think the world wants them to be. That’s not revelation. That’s performance.”

Host: The rain pounded harder, echoing her words. Somewhere, a siren wailed, distant but familiar, like the background music of a restless age.

Jack: “Performance, authenticity — same old dance. Every generation performs. We used to do it at church, at work, at dinner tables. Now we just do it on screens.”

Jeeny: “But before, there was at least presence. Eyes meeting eyes. Voices cracking with real emotion. Now we hide behind keyboards, hurling insults like arrows at people we’ve never even met. We’ve traded empathy for entertainment.”

Jack: “And why not? Empathy doesn’t trend, Jeeny. Outrage does. You can’t go viral with kindness.”

Host: He smirked, but his eyes betrayed the bitterness underneath. The screen light made him look hollow — like a man illuminated from the wrong direction.

Jeeny: “You say that as if it’s something to be proud of. Outrage has made people famous, yes — but it’s also made people disappear. Do you remember that journalist last year? The one who took her own life after a storm of online hate? Thousands of strangers tore her apart because they could.”

Jack: “I remember. And I also remember no one being held accountable. That’s the beauty of it — anonymity. We’ve built a weapon you can use without fingerprints.”

Jeeny: “A weapon? You mean a mirror.”

Host: Jack’s eyes lifted slowly, the faintest glint of challenge sparking.

Jack: “A mirror, huh? Then maybe we don’t like what we see. Maybe social media isn’t the battleground — maybe it’s the battlefield in our own heads.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s both. A battlefield and a mirror. It reflects what’s worst in us, and then magnifies it. People used to fear being forgotten — now they fear being unseen. We measure worth in likes, validation in retweets. We’ve turned our souls into algorithms.”

Host: The rain slowed, replaced by the steady hum of late-night traffic. The café was nearly empty now — only the quiet hum of conversation, the faint hiss of the espresso machine, and the pulsing of blue light against the window.

Jack: “You talk about souls like we lost them online. But maybe we never had as much depth as we pretended. Maybe the truth is — the internet didn’t corrupt us. It just exposed us.”

Jeeny: “That’s such a cruel way to see the world.”

Jack: “Cruel, but honest. People are fragile, Jeeny. They crave attention more than truth. Give them a platform, and they’ll trade integrity for applause every time.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we’ve forgotten how to listen. Maybe we’ve mistaken noise for connection.”

Host: Her voice softened, the fire dimming into something more sorrowful. She looked down at her phone, hesitated, then flipped it over. The screen came alive — a cascade of notifications, comments, mentions. For a moment, her expression faltered.

Jeeny: “Look at this. So many messages, and yet I’ve never felt lonelier.”

Jack: “Because you’re chasing ghosts. Digital approval from people who barely exist. This world —” he gestured to the window, to the rain, the neon, the reflection of his own face — “it’s all theatre. Likes are applause. Comments are heckles. And the stage never closes.”

Jeeny: “But Jack, people still need connection. Even if it’s digital. The problem isn’t the medium — it’s the intent. We forgot that communication was meant to build bridges, not burn them.”

Jack: “Tell that to the ones who build their fame on outrage. Anger sells. Conflict engages. Peace doesn’t get ad revenue.”

Host: The clock ticked past midnight. Outside, a billboard switched to a new ad — a sleek influencer smiling with perfect skin, the tagline: “Be your best self online.”

Jeeny: “Do you see it? Even our best selves are fictional now.”

Jack: “Fictional selves, real consequences.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We destroy lives with words typed in seconds. We tear each other down under the illusion of honesty, but really — it’s power. It’s control. A way to feel significant in a world that ignores us.”

Host: Her eyes glistened now, not with anger, but grief. She wasn’t arguing anymore — she was mourning.

Jack: “So what’s the answer, Jeeny? Delete everything? Disconnect? Go live in a cabin and write letters?”

Jeeny: “No. The answer isn’t to run. It’s to remember. To remember that behind every profile is a pulse. Behind every post, a person. If social media is a battlefield, then maybe the only weapon that matters anymore is kindness.”

Host: A long silence stretched, the kind that feels like an entire world taking a breath. The rain outside had stopped. The streetlights shimmered on puddles, turning them into small, trembling mirrors.

Jack: “Kindness doesn’t trend.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time it did.”

Host: He looked at her, really looked, for the first time that night. Her eyes reflected the city lights — tired but resolute. Something in his expression shifted, the cynicism retreating just enough to let in something raw, something human.

Jack: “Maybe the problem isn’t the battleground. Maybe it’s that we forgot we’re supposed to be on the same side.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.” She smiled faintly. “We built walls out of Wi-Fi. It’s time we built bridges instead.”

Host: The camera would pull back now — the window a canvas of wet light, the streets quiet, the digital noise muffled by the steady hum of real, breathing life. Jack put down his phone. Jeeny reached out, her hand covering his — a small, human gesture that no algorithm could ever replicate.

For a moment, the café felt untouched by the world — a flicker of stillness in an age of constant noise.

Jack: “So what do we do, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “We start talking again. Not posting. Talking. Listening. Maybe that’s how we reclaim what we lost.”

Host: Outside, a faint dawn light began to rise beyond the skyline — pink, pale, uncertain. The storm had passed, leaving the city wet, reflective, alive.

Jeeny: “Maybe one day,” she whispered, “we’ll learn that connection isn’t measured by followers, but by how deeply we let someone be heard.”

Jack: “And maybe,” he replied quietly, “the real social network was supposed to be between hearts.”

Host: The scene fades slowly, leaving only the faint buzz of the neon lights, the soft hum of traffic, and the image of two figures sitting across from each other — their phones silent, their words real.

Outside, the world keeps scrolling. But inside, at least for a moment, two souls have logged back into life.