The thing that we are trying to do at facebook, is just help

Host: The room was washed in the dim glow of digital blue — the kind of light that feels sterile, electric, endless. Screens hummed silently on every wall, flickering with faces, posts, videos, lives. Somewhere, a faint buzz from a phone cut through the hum — sharp, mechanical, almost human.

Jack sat at a steel table, its surface scattered with phones, old circuit boards, and coffee cups gone cold. His eyes, gray and unblinking, reflected the blue light like twin mirrors of disconnection. Across from him, Jeeny sat cross-legged on a leather couch, her hands folded around a warm cup of tea, her expression soft but alert — like someone watching the rise of a quiet storm.

Mark Zuckerberg’s words floated through the static air between them, disembodied, yet charged:
“The thing that we are trying to do at Facebook is just help people connect and communicate more efficiently.”

Jeeny: “It sounds noble, doesn’t it? Helping people connect. Making communication easier. Like building a bridge across loneliness.”

Jack: (with a low chuckle) “A bridge made of algorithms. That’s not connection, Jeeny — that’s consumption. Zuckerberg didn’t build a bridge. He built a market.”

Host: His voice cut through the soft hum of machines, laced with that dry cynicism that always carried a hint of old grief. A nearby screen refreshed — photos, ads, comments — endless digital echoes of people shouting into the void, hoping someone might hear.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that still something? Even if it’s flawed, it’s something. Billions of people who’d never meet — talking, sharing, finding community. Doesn’t that count?”

Jack: “Finding community? Or finding validation? Facebook turned connection into a currency. Every like, every share — a dopamine hit disguised as empathy.”

Host: A neon sign outside the window blinked erratically, painting the room in pulses of light and shadow — as if the city itself couldn’t decide what it wanted to be: real or reflected.

Jeeny: “You sound like a man who’s been burned by something he helped build.”

Jack: “No, I sound like someone who’s watched people drown in their own reflections. We used to talk, Jeeny. Now we just perform.”

Jeeny: “You’re blaming the tool for how people use it. Connection was always messy — even before the Internet. We wrote letters that took months to arrive. Now a mother can see her son’s face from across the world in seconds. Isn’t that worth something?”

Jack: “Sure. Until the son forgets how to look at her when he’s in the same room.”

Host: The silence that followed was thick — humming with unspoken recognition. Outside, a siren wailed and faded, swallowed by the electric hum of the night.

Jeeny: “You talk about technology like it killed intimacy. But maybe it just exposed what was already dying. Maybe people were always lonely — Facebook just made it visible.”

Jack: “You mean quantifiable. Zuckerberg found a way to monetize loneliness. He turned emotion into data, connection into metrics. It’s not conversation anymore; it’s curation.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes narrowed — not in anger, but in that fierce empathy of someone who refuses to surrender the human in the face of the machine.

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s on us. Maybe the problem isn’t the code — it’s our hunger. We built these platforms because we couldn’t stand silence. We wanted noise, even synthetic noise, to fill the space where meaning used to live.”

Jack: “And now the noise owns us.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the answer isn’t retreat — it’s redemption.”

Host: The computer fans whispered in steady rhythm, like a mechanical prayer. Jack leaned back, exhaling a long breath — smoke, tension, memory.

Jack: “You really think something born of profit can rediscover purpose?”

Jeeny: “History says it can. Printing presses were made for control, not enlightenment — but they sparked revolutions. Television started as corporate spectacle, and it ended up broadcasting truth from war zones. Maybe Facebook started as a business… but it’s still a mirror. If we hate what we see, maybe we should ask what we’ve become.”

Host: The lights from the screens flickered faster, their glow painting her face in soft blue — half angel, half algorithm.

Jack: “You’re romanticizing it. Connection isn’t the same as communion. We can’t feel through pixels. Empathy doesn’t survive compression.”

Jeeny: “Tell that to the refugee mother who found her lost son through a Facebook post. Or the communities that rose after disasters — people saving each other through screens when governments failed. Isn’t that connection? Isn’t that… human?”

Host: Jack hesitated. The hum of machines filled the pause like a heartbeat that wasn’t sure whether it was his own.

Jack: “Those are exceptions. For every life saved, a hundred are drowned in misinformation and vanity. The platform amplifies what we already are — desperate, divided, addicted to being seen.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the first step to healing — to see ourselves clearly, even if it’s ugly. Isn’t that what art does? Reflects truth, even when it hurts?”

Jack: “Art moves the soul. Facebook moves the algorithm.”

Host: Her laugh came softly — not mockery, but sorrow.

Jeeny: “You know, for someone who despises it, you talk about it like a man in mourning.”

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe I am. Once upon a time, I believed the Internet would unite us. I thought connection meant understanding. But it just made the noise louder. We mistook being visible for being known.”

Host: The rain began again — faint, rhythmic, digital against the glass. Jeeny rose from the couch, walked slowly to the nearest screen, and dimmed it until only the faintest glow remained.

Jeeny: “Maybe connection isn’t about efficiency, Jack. Maybe Zuckerberg was right about the ‘connecting,’ but wrong about the ‘efficient.’ Connection isn’t fast. It’s messy. It’s slow. It’s human.”

Jack: “You’re saying what we need isn’t better communication — it’s better listening.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We built machines to make our voices louder, when what we needed was to make our silences deeper.”

Host: Her words seemed to still the hum. For a moment, even the screens seemed to pause, their flicker slowed, their glow softening to something almost tender.

Jack: “Then maybe it’s not the system we need to fix… maybe it’s the soul behind the keyboard.”

Jeeny: “That’s where it’s always been.”

Host: She smiled, small but certain, and set her cup down. The tea had gone cold, but the conversation had warmed the air. Jack looked at her — the first real look of the night — and something softened in him, something almost forgotten: faith.

Jack: “So, connection isn’t about the platform.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s about the presence.”

Host: The final screen flickered, then dimmed to black. In the reflection, Jack and Jeeny sat surrounded by their own shadows — no filters, no feeds, just two souls still capable of listening.

Outside, the rain fell steady, cleansing, infinite.

And for a fleeting second, in that unplugged silence, the world finally felt connected —
not efficiently,
but honestly.