Texting is a lot like an answering machine. If you don't want to

Host: The morning light slanted through the half-closed blinds of a small downtown diner, slicing the air into pale ribbons of gold and dust. The murmur of city traffic hummed beyond the window, a quiet orchestra of horns, footsteps, and the distant rattle of a passing train. Inside, the smell of coffee and burnt toast clung to the air like an old memory.

Jack sat alone at a corner booth, his phone glowing faintly beside his cup. He wasn’t looking at it — just letting it buzz, once, twice, then fall back into silence. Jeeny arrived moments later, her coat damp from the mist, her eyes bright but tired, as though she had been walking through thoughts too heavy to carry.

She slid into the seat across from him.

Jeeny: “You didn’t answer my text last night.”

Jack: “I saw it.”

Jeeny: “And?”

Jack: (shrugging) “Didn’t feel like talking.”

Host: The sound of the coffee machine hissed behind them, a faint groan of steam and heat. Jeeny’s fingers tightened around her cup, tracing the rim as though trying to hold something steady.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack… Pat Gillick once said, ‘Texting is like an answering machine. If you don’t want to talk to someone, it’s like screening your calls.’”

Jack: (with a faint smile) “He was right. That’s the beauty of it — you can choose your silence.”

Jeeny: “Or hide behind it.”

Host: The light flickered over their faces — hers, soft with concern; his, carved with quiet defense. Outside, a bus rumbled by, shaking the window and their reflection in it.

Jack: “You call it hiding. I call it control. In a world that never stops talking, sometimes silence is the only way to breathe. Texting gives you space — it lets you think before you speak, or not speak at all.”

Jeeny: “But that’s not conversation, Jack. That’s management. It’s like turning people into notifications you can swipe away. You say it’s space, but it’s really distance.”

Jack: “Distance is underrated.”

Jeeny: “So is connection.”

Host: The waitress walked by with a tray of plates, the clatter of dishes breaking the tension for a moment. Jack leaned back, his eyes fixed on the phone, its dark screen reflecting the faint glow of the diner’s lights.

Jack: “Do you remember when answering machines were a thing? People didn’t always pick up. You left a message, they called back — maybe. And that was fine. Nobody thought it meant they didn’t care. But now, if you don’t reply to a text in five minutes, it’s betrayal.”

Jeeny: “Because the world got faster, Jack. We didn’t just build phones; we built expectations. People don’t want silence anymore — they want presence. Typing dots, read receipts, little signals that say, ‘You still exist to me.’”

Jack: “That’s the problem, Jeeny. We’ve mistaken availability for affection. Just because someone replies instantly doesn’t mean they care. It just means they’re addicted.”

Jeeny: “And just because someone stays silent doesn’t mean they’re wise, Jack. Sometimes it just means they’re afraid.”

Host: Her words landed like quiet raindrops on the table, each one spreading a small circle of truth. Jack looked at her — not angry, but uncomfortable, as though she had reached a place he’d rather not visit.

He took a sip of his coffee, the steam fogging his glasses for a moment, blurring the world into a soft, uncertain haze.

Jack: “You think I’m afraid?”

Jeeny: “I think you’re tired. You’ve built a wall of unread messages and called it peace. But it’s not peace if it keeps people out.”

Jack: “Maybe I’m just tired of performing. Every text, every emoji, every ‘hey, how are you?’ — it’s all part of this constant theater. We’re not talking anymore; we’re curating.”

Jeeny: “And yet you still check it. You still wait for those dots to appear. You still want to be seen, even if you pretend you don’t.”

Host: The sound of a spoon stirred in her cup, slow and rhythmic, like a heartbeat counting down. Jack didn’t answer right away. The rain began again outside — soft, forgiving.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I want the illusion of connection without the mess of it. Texting makes it easy to edit, to delay, to disappear gracefully. No awkward pauses, no shaking voice, no truths slipping out too fast.”

Jeeny: “And no sincerity, either. Truth lives in those awkward pauses, Jack. In the way someone hesitates, or laughs, or just sits there breathing beside you. That’s what we’ve lost — the unfiltered presence of another soul.”

Jack: “Maybe that kind of presence doesn’t survive in this world anymore.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the world needs fewer texts and more tables like this.”

Host: The waitress poured them both more coffee, the steam curling like ghosts between them. The diner was almost empty now. Outside, a neon sign flickered — OPEN — its buzz low and steady, like a pulse that refused to die.

Jack’s phone buzzed again. He didn’t look at it.

Jeeny: “Who is it?”

Jack: “Does it matter?”

Jeeny: “It does if you care.”

Jack: (after a pause) “It’s no one important.”

Jeeny: “Then why not just answer?”

Jack: “Because if I answer, they’ll expect more. That’s how it starts — one text, then another, and before you know it, you’re trapped in the constant hum of talking without meaning.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe you’re trapped in your own fear of being needed.”

Host: The words hung there, suspended, like steam that refused to rise. Jack’s jaw tightened; Jeeny’s eyes softened. The light shifted, pale and fragile, turning the diner into a stage where two people tried to remember how to simply speak.

Jack: “When I was a kid, I used to call my grandfather. We’d talk for an hour about nothing — the weather, baseball, his garden. Now, I get a text from my nephew that says, ‘Sup.’ That’s supposed to mean connection? It’s like we’ve traded voices for echoes.”

Jeeny: “That’s what I mean. We’ve made communication so efficient, we’ve stripped it of intimacy. The soul doesn’t speak in abbreviations, Jack.”

Jack: (quietly) “So what do we do?”

Jeeny: “Start by answering your messages — with your voice, not your thumbs.”

Host: For a moment, they both laughed — softly, like a shared secret finding its way through the noise. The rain stopped, leaving the streets outside glistening with the pale reflection of dawn.

Jack picked up his phone, stared at it for a long moment, then set it down again.

Jack: “Maybe I’ll call them later.”

Jeeny: “Good. Maybe they’ve been waiting to hear you, not just read you.”

Jack: “And maybe I’ve been waiting to listen, not just respond.”

Host: The sun began to break through the clouds, a thin line of light creeping across the table, touching their hands where they rested, close but not touching. The city stirred awake, its heartbeat returning to the rhythm of another day.

Outside, people walked, phones in hands, heads bowed, each trapped in their own digital solitude.

Inside the diner, two voices lingered — not in the phones, but in the air itself, warm, human, and unrecorded.

And for a fleeting moment, that was enough.