The freedom of expression cannot be defined selectively.

Host: The evening sky over the city was bruised with the color of steel smoke and amber haze, the kind that hangs after a protest dissolves — after chants fade, after the police lines scatter. The air was thick with the smell of burnt posters, wet asphalt, and something invisible yet heavy: silence.

Jack sat at a small table in the corner of an old press café, his jacket soaked, his hands stained with ink and rain. The television on the wall replayed snippets of the chaos outside — footage of clashes, journalists running, words bleeped out, voices censored mid-sentence.

Jeeny entered, still carrying the sharpness of the street in her eyes, her camera strap dangling around her neck, her boots muddy. She dropped her bag beside the chair opposite him and sat without a word. The sound of the door closing behind her was heavier than the rain still tapping against the windows.

Between them, the café hummed with whispers — journalists, activists, dreamers — the disillusioned and defiant gathered under the thin protection of weak light and strong coffee.

On the small screen, a voice played through static:
"The freedom of expression cannot be defined selectively." — Barkha Dutt

Jeeny: “She’s right, you know.”

Jack: “Everyone says they’re right about freedom — until someone else uses it.”

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve already surrendered.”

Jack: “No. I’ve just learned that freedom’s the word people use when they mean ‘mine, not yours.’”

Host: Jeeny leaned forward, her eyes catching the dull glow of the neon sign outside. Her hands trembled slightly as she unzipped her jacket, rainwater pooling on the floor.

Jeeny: “You don’t believe in free expression anymore?”

Jack: “I believe in it. I just don’t believe anyone else does.”

Jeeny: “That’s cynical.”

Jack: “That’s experience. We talk about freedom like it’s a river, but the minute someone drinks from it differently, we damn it up.”

Jeeny: “So what, we just give up? Let silence win?”

Jack: “Silence already wins. Every day. You can’t hear it over the shouting, but it’s there — the silence between what’s allowed and what’s true.”

Host: The barista turned the TV down, but the headline remained — “Content Pulled After Public Backlash.” The image froze on the screen — a journalist mid-sentence, mouth open, words erased.

Jeeny: “When I was covering the student protests last year, they called us traitors. All we did was film what we saw.”

Jack: “And they hated you for seeing.”

Jeeny: “They hated us for showing.”

Jack: “That’s the price of truth, Jeeny. No one wants to see their reflection without makeup.”

Jeeny: “But it’s not just about truth. It’s about voice. About giving space to everyone — not just the ones with microphones.”

Jack: “You think everyone deserves a microphone?”

Jeeny: “I think everyone deserves a chance to speak — even the ones I disagree with.”

Jack: “And when they use that chance to spread hate?”

Jeeny: “Then you counter it with louder love. But you don’t silence them, Jack. You fight lies with light, not censorship.”

Host: The rain outside grew heavier, washing the windowpane in streaks that caught the neon reflections like veins of color running through glass. The sound of typing filled the air — a few journalists still working, their words clicking like quiet gunfire in the night.

Jack: “That’s idealism. You think the world runs on fairness, but it runs on control. The powerful don’t silence to protect — they silence to preserve.”

Jeeny: “Then that’s exactly why freedom of expression can’t be selective. You can’t defend it when it’s convenient and kill it when it’s uncomfortable.”

Jack: “So, we let hate speeches roam free? Conspiracies? Propaganda? What then? Chaos?”

Jeeny: “Freedom isn’t safe, Jack. It was never meant to be. The minute you start controlling who speaks, you’ve already lost what makes freedom sacred.”

Jack: “You sound like someone who’s never seen what words can do.”

Jeeny: “I’ve seen it. I’ve seen words incite mobs, yes. But I’ve also seen words heal, expose, unite. The answer isn’t less speech. It’s more truth.”

Host: Jack stared into his coffee — black, bitter, untouched. His reflection wavered in it, distorted by the tremor in his hands. Jeeny’s camera rested on the table, the lens still flecked with raindrops — small, circular mirrors of the world they both kept trying to capture before it vanished.

Jack: “You know what happened today, right? They fired three editors. Said their article was ‘against national interest.’ What does that even mean anymore?”

Jeeny: “It means they told the truth too soon.”

Jack: “And the people cheered for it. That’s what breaks me — it’s not just the censors in power, it’s the ones who demand their own blindness.”

Jeeny: “Because truth hurts. Because it shatters the myths we build to survive.”

Jack: “Then maybe myths are mercy.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Myths are comfort. And comfort kills courage.”

Host: The lights flickered, briefly plunging the café into near darkness before humming back to life. Outside, the rain softened to a drizzle, but the air remained heavy with tension — a silence too aware of itself.

Jack: “You ever get tired of fighting for people who don’t care?”

Jeeny: “Every single day. But I keep doing it anyway.”

Jack: “Why?”

Jeeny: “Because silence is a disease that spreads when the tired give up.”

Jack: “And if it spreads too far?”

Jeeny: “Then we shout louder.”

Host: She leaned back, her eyes gleaming — defiant, alive. The fatigue in her face didn’t hide the spark burning beneath it. Jack watched her, and something in his expression softened — admiration, perhaps, or envy of her faith.

Jack: “You sound like you still believe journalism can save the world.”

Jeeny: “No. I believe it can remind the world of its conscience.”

Jack: “And what if the world doesn’t have one left?”

Jeeny: “Then we write until it grows one.”

Host: The clock on the wall struck midnight. The café thinned out — one by one, voices faded, chairs scraped, doors shut. Outside, the rain stopped completely, leaving behind the gleam of wet streets reflecting the pale moonlight.

Jeeny reached for her camera, brushing the last drops from its surface. Jack picked up his coat.

Jeeny: “You know what scares me more than censorship?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “The moment people stop noticing it.”

Jack: “Then maybe our job’s to keep reminding them.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: They stood, walking toward the door. The neon sign flickered above them — “OPEN,” though it hardly was. Jeeny paused, turning back once more, her hand on the doorframe.

Jeeny: “Barkha Dutt was right — freedom of expression can’t be defined selectively. The moment it is, it stops being freedom at all.”

Jack: “And becomes what?”

Jeeny: “Permission.”

Host: The door creaked open, and the cold air rushed in — sharp, cleansing, alive. They stepped out into the wet street, the city still glimmering in puddles, reflections of lights that refused to die.

The storm had passed, but the struggle hadn’t. Somewhere, another voice was already rising — unseen, uninvited, unstoppable.

And as Jack and Jeeny disappeared into the night, their footsteps echoing against the damp concrete, one truth lingered like the last pulse of thunder —

that real freedom isn’t about speaking without consequence,
but about daring to speak when consequence is all there is.