Sometimes, idealistic people are put off the whole business of

Host: The evening descended over New York City like a slow spill of ink — streets glimmering with reflections, buildings humming with unseen dreams, and the faint electric pulse of ambition running beneath it all. In a corner of a rooftop bar, half-hidden behind potted palms and the murmur of music, two figures sat facing each other — one leaning forward, sharp-eyed and taut, the other reclined, calm but burning quietly within.

A faint jazz melody spilled from the speakers, mingling with the clink of glasses, the laughter of strangers, the invisible choreography of the city that never sleeps.

Jeeny wore a dark coat, her long hair glinting under the amber light, her eyes thoughtful and luminous. Jack sat opposite her, sleeves rolled up, a drink in his hand, his expression unreadable — part skepticism, part fatigue.

Jeeny: “Sonia Sotomayor once said, ‘Sometimes, idealistic people are put off the whole business of networking as something tainted by flattery and the pursuit of selfish advantage. But virtue in obscurity is rewarded only in Heaven. To succeed in this world you have to be known to people.’”

Host: The words seemed to hang in the air, hovering between them like a moral paradox neither wanted to claim. The city’s lights flashed below — countless windows, countless stories, each fighting to be seen.

Jack: “That’s the kind of truth people pretend to hate but secretly live by.”

Jeeny: “You say that like it’s shameful.”

Jack: “It is shameful — if success comes at the cost of sincerity. Networking’s just a polite word for using people. We flatter, we charm, we pretend to care, and we call it connection.”

Host: His voice carried the weariness of someone who’d been burned by too many smiles. He took a slow sip of his drink, eyes fixed on the skyline.

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Networking isn’t pretending — it’s participating. The world runs on relationships, not righteousness. Sotomayor didn’t say to abandon virtue. She said virtue alone isn’t enough if no one can see it.”

Jack: “So we sell our authenticity to be noticed?”

Jeeny: “No. We share it so it can matter.”

Host: A soft breeze passed over the rooftop, lifting the edge of her coat, stirring the scent of rain on metal. The sky was bruised with clouds, the horizon flickering with distant lightning.

Jack: “You sound like a politician.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because politicians understand something artists and idealists forget — visibility is currency. You can be the kindest soul in the room, but if no one knows your name, your kindness changes nothing.”

Jack: “So you’d rather shout than serve?”

Jeeny: “I’d rather reach than rot.”

Host: Her words cut the air like truth wrapped in silk. Jack’s grey eyes narrowed — not in anger, but in thought.

Jack: “You think being seen equals being good. But fame doesn’t purify. The world’s full of people known for all the wrong reasons.”

Jeeny: “I didn’t say fame. I said known. There’s a difference. To be known is to be understood. To be remembered for something that matters. And that takes connection — not corruption.”

Host: The music shifted to a slower rhythm — a trumpet’s lonely cry weaving through the chatter. Jack leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.

Jack: “I used to believe that, once. I thought the world noticed goodness naturally. That if you worked hard enough, stayed honest enough, the right people would see. But I watched others — louder, less deserving — climb while I waited for integrity to speak for itself.”

Jeeny: “And?”

Jack: “It never did.”

Host: The rain began, soft at first, like a whisper of apology. Tiny droplets scattered across the glass railing, distorting the lights below into trembling jewels.

Jeeny: “Then you learned what Sotomayor meant. Virtue in obscurity may be noble — but it’s invisible. Even the purest truth needs an amplifier.”

Jack: “But amplifiers distort the sound.”

Jeeny: “Only if you stop tuning it.”

Host: She reached for her glass, the condensation catching light as she moved. Her voice softened, but her conviction did not.

Jeeny: “Look at history. Think of Martin Luther King, Gandhi, Malala. Their causes weren’t loud at first — they became loud. Because they let themselves be seen, heard, judged. They risked misunderstanding for impact. You think that’s flattery? That’s courage.”

Jack: “And what about those who can’t stomach the game? The ones who’d rather work in silence than sell their souls for attention?”

Jeeny: “Then their silence becomes their tomb.”

Host: The thunder rolled faintly in the distance, as though agreeing with her.

Jeeny: “Do you remember Van Gogh, Jack? He painted masterpieces in obscurity — and died convinced he was worthless. His art only lived because others spoke for him after he was gone. That’s the tragedy of invisible virtue. The world can’t value what it doesn’t see.”

Jack: “So you’re saying the artist should become his own salesman.”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying he should become his own advocate.”

Host: Her eyes glowed with quiet fire, like candlelight refusing to yield to the dark. Jack looked at her for a long moment — the storm in his expression softening into reluctant understanding.

Jack: “You think I hide behind my cynicism.”

Jeeny: “I know you do. It’s safer to call the system corrupt than to risk being seen by it.”

Host: The rain intensified, droplets racing down the glass wall beside them, blurring the lights of the skyscrapers into streaks of molten color.

Jack: “You make it sound like invisibility is a choice.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t it? Every time you refuse to reach out, to speak, to connect — you choose it. Every time you say, ‘I’m not like them,’ you build another wall between yourself and the world.”

Jack: “And if the world isn’t worth reaching?”

Jeeny: “Then make it worth it. But don’t vanish while waiting for it to change.”

Host: The storm cracked open the sky, a sudden flash of light revealing their faces — hers resolute, his conflicted. The wind swept through the rooftop, scattering napkins and the scent of rain-soaked city air.

Jack: “You think networking can be virtuous.”

Jeeny: “I think intention makes it virtuous. You can shake a hand to take — or to build. The motion’s the same; the meaning’s different.”

Jack: “So success isn’t selfish if it’s shared?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You can climb and still pull others up.”

Host: The thunder rolled again, deeper this time — a sound like the pulse of the earth itself. Jeeny tilted her head, studying him with gentle defiance.

Jeeny: “Tell me, Jack. How many brilliant people have you known who stayed silent because they thought purity meant isolation?”

Jack: “Too many.”

Jeeny: “And where are they now?”

Jack: “Forgotten.”

Jeeny: “Then tell me who won — the loud or the lost?”

Host: The rain softened, the city lights sharpening again as the storm began to break. Jack exhaled slowly, his resistance thinning into thoughtfulness.

Jack: “Maybe I’ve mistaken pride for principle.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they’re the same thing until the world forgets you.”

Host: Her smile was faint — not triumphant, but compassionate. Jack nodded, more to himself than to her.

Jack: “So to matter, we must be seen. To be seen, we must step into the crowd. Even if it’s ugly.”

Jeeny: “Because that’s where the beauty hides too.”

Host: The rain stopped. The clouds parted, revealing a thin line of moonlight stretching across the skyline. Below, the city shimmered — alive, restless, waiting to be seen.

Jeeny: “Virtue in obscurity is rewarded only in Heaven,” she repeated softly. “But we’re not in Heaven yet.”

Jack: “No. We’re here. In the noise. In the neon. Trying to make the quiet things heard.”

Host: The city lights reflected in their glasses, merging into gold. And for a fleeting, beautiful moment, obscurity itself felt like a choice neither of them wanted anymore.

The world below kept spinning — a million souls networking not for advantage, but for existence. And above it, two figures sat in quiet understanding, realizing that being known isn’t vanity — it’s legacy.

And sometimes, to keep goodness alive, you have to make sure the world can see it.