Sometimes I worry that science communication is just preaching to

Host: The sunset bled across the sky, staining the edges of the city in hues of orange and violet. A faint hum of evening traffic threaded through the streets, mingling with the distant sound of laughter from a nearby café. The air smelled faintly of coffee and ozone, the kind that follows a light rain. Inside the small corner café, the light was warm, golden, flickering from hanging bulbs that swayed slightly with the breeze.

Jack sat near the window, sleeves rolled up, eyes fixed on his phone’s screen. He scrolled through an endless feed of videos, his expression unreadable. Jeeny sat opposite him, her laptop open, a half-finished cappuccino beside it. Her dark hair was tied loosely, a few strands falling over her face, catching the light like silk threads.

Host: The café was nearly empty now, save for the low murmur of jazz and the soft clicking of keys. Outside, neon signs began to flicker to life — the world shifting gears from day to night.

Jeeny: “You know, Elise Andrew once said something I keep thinking about — ‘Sometimes I worry that science communication is just preaching to the choir, speaking to the converted. Social media gives us an amazing opportunity to reach new people.’”

Jack: “Hmm.” He didn’t look up. “Science communication, huh? That’s a fancy way of saying people post facts online and hope someone cares.”

Jeeny: “That’s not fair. It’s about sharing truth — fighting ignorance with understanding.”

Jack: “No, Jeeny, it’s about confirmation. You post a climate change article, and the only people who read it are the ones who already believe in it. The rest scroll past, or worse — mock it. You’re not reaching the unconvinced; you’re comforting the convinced.”

Host: The light from the window shifted, brushing Jack’s face in half-shadow. Jeeny’s eyes narrowed, not in anger, but in thought. The steam from her cup rose between them like a thin veil, the silence stretching taut.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that how every idea begins — with a circle of believers? Even revolutions start small. Think of Galileo. His ideas were laughed at, condemned. But he wrote, he spoke, and centuries later — the world caught up.”

Jack: “You’re comparing tweets to Galileo?” His voice was low, tinged with irony. “He risked his life for truth. People today risk… maybe a few angry comments. It’s not the same.”

Jeeny: “It’s not about the risk. It’s about the message. Maybe one post — one video, one story — reaches someone outside that echo chamber. Maybe that’s enough.”

Jack: “You’re dreaming. Algorithms don’t reward truth, they reward engagement. Rage gets clicks. Outrage spreads faster than reason. You’re not fighting ignorance, Jeeny. You’re feeding it.”

Host: The rain began again, soft and persistent, tapping against the glass like a quiet metronome marking the rhythm of their debate. Jack’s reflection flickered beside hers — logic and empathy sharing the same small space, bound by the same faint light.

Jeeny: “Then what do you want us to do? Give up? Stay silent because people are stubborn?”

Jack: “No. But stop pretending that shouting into the void changes the void. Real change happens in classrooms, in labs, in policy — not in hashtags.”

Jeeny: “And yet, Jack, that’s how revolutions start now. Hashtags. Stories. Someone in their bedroom with a phone, reaching millions. Think of Greta Thunberg — just a girl holding a sign, and suddenly, the world listened. That’s not void; that’s voice.”

Host: Jack paused, his eyes flicking to the rain, to his own reflection in the window. There was something weary in him — not disdain, but fatigue, the kind that comes from believing too long that people can’t change.

Jack: “You really think people listen because they care? Most of them click ‘like’ and move on. Empathy’s a currency now — traded cheap for dopamine hits. We’re drowning in words, Jeeny. Facts, opinions, propaganda — all mixed up. How can truth compete with that?”

Jeeny: “By persisting. By being louder — or smarter. You say truth drowns, but truth also floats. It survives.”

Jack: “Not always. The internet buries truth faster than history ever did. You remember that flat-Earth conference last year? Thousands of people — in 2025 — cheering for ignorance. And they call it ‘freedom of thought.’ How do you argue with that?”

Jeeny: “With patience. With compassion. With repetition. Science isn’t a sermon, Jack — it’s an invitation. You don’t win hearts by mocking them. You invite them to see.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice softened, but there was a heat beneath it — a quiet flame that refused to go out. Jack’s hand rested on his glass, unmoving. The world outside blurred — rain, light, motion — all merging into a watercolor of uncertainty.

Jack: “You make it sound so simple. But you forget — people don’t change with facts. They change with feelings. You can tell someone a million times that the Earth is warming — they won’t care until their house floods.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why science communication must carry feeling. Not just data. Stories. Humanity. That’s what social media can do — turn facts into empathy.”

Host: A flash of lightning briefly illuminated the café — white, fleeting. For a moment, both their faces were mirrors of conviction: one grounded in reason, the other in faith.

Jack: “Empathy doesn’t fix physics, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “But it moves people to listen to it.”

Host: Silence again. The rain slowed. Somewhere outside, a car passed, its headlights streaking through the wet glass. The café’s music changed — slower, quieter, almost mournful.

Jeeny: “Do you remember the first time you saw the photograph of Earth from space? That blue marble floating in the dark? Didn’t that make you feel small — and yet connected?”

Jack: “Yeah.” He nodded slowly. “It did.”

Jeeny: “That’s communication, Jack. Not just science — emotion. Humanity seeing itself for the first time. That image reached everyone, not just scientists. It changed how we saw ourselves.”

Host: Jack looked up from his screen, the faintest smile touching his lips. The edges of his cynicism began to soften.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s not about preaching to the choir… maybe it’s about keeping the choir singing, so the world outside hears the echo.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You never know who’s listening.”

Host: The last of the rain trickled down the windowpane. The clouds began to part, and a faint sliver of moonlight slipped through, silvering the steam that rose from Jeeny’s cup. She closed her laptop, her eyes lingering on Jack’s, both tired and awake in the same breath.

Jack: “You always find hope in the noise.”

Jeeny: “Because hope is signal, Jack. Everything else is static.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked gently. The music swelled — a soft saxophone, fading into silence. Jack leaned back, his expression lighter, more thoughtful. Jeeny smiled — not triumphant, but calm, like someone who’d seen light in the fog.

Host: Outside, the city shimmered beneath the moon, every wet street glinting like a vein of silver. The café door opened for a moment, letting in a breath of cool air, a whisper of the world beyond.

Jack: “So, what do we do now?”

Jeeny: “We keep speaking. Even if only a few listen.”

Host: Jack nodded, the faintest of smiles breaking through the seriousness in his face.

Jack: “Then let’s make the noise count.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back now — framing them in warm light against the cold city beyond the glass. Two silhouettes in a world of screens and silence, still speaking, still believing that connection — like science — begins with a single word, carried far enough to be heard.

Host: The scene faded on the sound of the rain’s last drop — falling, vanishing — and somewhere, in the distance, a notification tone echoed like a fragile heartbeat in the dark.