The way you communicate an idea is different than the way you

Host: The morning sun bled through the wide windows of a downtown coworking loft, washing the room in gold and dust. The faint hum of computers, the click of keyboards, and the distant murmur of the city outside made the air vibrate like quiet electricity.

Posters hung on the walls — minimalist, sleek, hollow slogans about “Innovation,” “Connection,” “Vision.” A few coffee cups stood abandoned on desks, half-full, half-forgotten.

Jack sat by the window, his suit jacket draped over a chair, his tie loosened. His grey eyes stared at the presentation on the screen in front of him — a sea of charts, data, and words that looked clean but felt dead.

Jeeny entered, laptop under her arm, her long black hair tied loosely, her eyes alive with that impossible mix of empathy and challenge. She stopped by his desk, gazed at the slide deck, and sighed.

The tension between them wasn’t anger — it was belief rubbing against disbelief, two philosophies dressed in office clothes.

Jeeny: quietly, but pointedly “Frank Luntz once said, ‘The way you communicate an idea is different than the way you communicate a product.’”

Jack: without looking up “Yeah. I remember. I quoted that line in a campaign once. Sold six million units of a product no one actually needed.”

Jeeny: raises an eyebrow “Exactly my point.”

Jack: leans back, rubbing his temple “You’re about to turn this into a sermon, aren’t you?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. I’m about to turn it into a mirror.”

Host: The sunlight sharpened through the glass, cutting a diagonal path across the floor, bisecting them — one half in brightness, one in shade.

Jeeny: “You talk about people like markets. You pitch hope the same way you pitch shampoo — with packaging and polish. But ideas... ideas are alive. They breathe. They demand honesty.”

Jack: snorts softly “Honesty doesn’t sell. Clarity does. People don’t buy truth; they buy comfort. That’s marketing.”

Jeeny: steps closer, voice rising just slightly “Then maybe marketing is the problem. You can’t brand conviction. You can’t ‘optimize’ belief. An idea has to touch something human, not just trigger a dopamine click.”

Jack: leans forward, voice sharp “You think the world runs on poetry, Jeeny? Try running payroll with inspiration. Try convincing investors with feelings. We live in a marketplace of attention — not revelation.”

Jeeny: “And yet, people follow those who make them feel before they think. That’s the irony, Jack. Even in your precious marketplace — emotion drives logic.”

Host: A long pause lingered, thick and electric. The air conditioner hummed; a coffee machine hissed. Outside, a horn blared, like the city itself joining the argument.

Jack stood, walking to the window, staring down at the grid of cars and bodies below — all moving, all selling something, even if it was just the illusion of purpose.

Jack: “You know what makes me laugh? Everyone preaches authenticity, but the minute you speak it, they tune out. They don’t want ideas; they want slogans. ‘Change the world’ — that’s not an idea anymore. It’s a tagline.”

Jeeny: “Because people like you made it one.”

Host: The words hit like a slap — not loud, but cutting. Jack turned, his jaw tightening.

Jack: “People like me?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The strategists. The persuaders. You take language — the most human thing we have — and turn it into currency. You sell belief the way others sell beer.”

Jack: coldly “And you think you’re any different? You communicate your ‘causes’ through social media and TED Talks — same machine, different message.”

Jeeny: steps closer, eyes narrowing, voice trembling slightly “No, Jack. I’m not trying to sell. I’m trying to reach. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “Reach or manipulate — the line’s thinner than you think.”

Host: The light shifted as a cloud passed, dimming the room into a cooler hue. The projector’s glow filled the space — blue and sterile, like the heartbeat of a machine.

Jeeny: softly now “You remember when we worked on the charity campaign? For the refugees?”

Jack: hesitates “Yeah. What about it?”

Jeeny: “You made the tagline: ‘They’re just like us.’ You said it tested well. But it failed, remember?”

Jack: “Because people don’t like guilt. They like distance. I was being realistic.”

Jeeny: “No. You stripped the soul out of it. You made people think instead of feel. And that’s why it died.”

Host: Her voice cracked slightly, but her eyes didn’t waver. Jack’s shoulders stiffened; the echo of her words filled the room like the hum before thunder.

Jack: quietly “And what would you have said?”

Jeeny: “I would’ve said, ‘They dream of home.’ One sentence. Not logic. Heart. Because ideas aren’t about conversion — they’re about connection.”

Jack: pauses, the weight of silence pressing in “And yet your version wouldn’t have met the metrics.”

Jeeny: smiles faintly, eyes wet with conviction “No. But it might have met a few hearts.”

Host: The fan overhead groaned, its blades catching the light like slow-moving time. Jack sat again, the edge of his pragmatism softening. His fingers traced the edge of a coffee mug — a habit, like he was grounding himself.

Jack: “You’re not wrong. But the world doesn’t reward sincerity, Jeeny. It rewards performance. Maybe we’ve built a system where truth has to wear makeup just to get a word in.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But performance without truth collapses. It always does. Look at politics, at advertising — the ones who lie brightest fall hardest. People sense it, even subconsciously. They always do.”

Jack: “Then why do they keep buying it?”

Jeeny: “Because they’re starving for meaning. They’ll eat imitation if it’s the only thing on the shelf.”

Host: The words lingered like smoke in the air, unshakable, almost tender. For the first time, Jack didn’t answer right away. He just watched her, really watched her — and behind the idealism, he saw something raw. Exhaustion. Faith. Fire.

Jack: gently “You ever get tired of fighting this battle?”

Jeeny: “Every day. But I still believe words can heal if we stop using them to sell.”

Jack: “So what, we abandon the game?”

Jeeny: “No. We rewrite the rules.”

Host: A thin ray of sunlight slipped back through the window, striking the screen. The company’s presentation froze — numbers and charts now glowing like hollow ghosts. Jeeny walked over and shut the laptop. The room fell into warm quiet.

Jack: “So how do you communicate an idea, then?”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “With vulnerability. With story. You don’t pitch an idea; you live it out loud. You let it breathe, and you let people see themselves inside it.”

Jack: “And a product?”

Jeeny: “A product is what you sell. An idea is what you share. The difference is whether you’re talking to a customer — or a soul.”

Host: Jack’s eyes softened; his usual armor cracked just a little. The light caught the faintest shimmer of his half-smile — the kind that hides understanding under fatigue.

Jack: softly “You’d make a terrible marketer, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: laughs “Maybe. But I’d make a decent human.”

Host: The clock ticked once — sharp, final, steady. The city outside had shifted into midday rhythm — car horns, footsteps, motion. Jack reached for his jacket, slipping it over his shoulder, then paused by the window.

Jack: “You know... maybe Luntz was right. The way we communicate an idea is different. One changes what people buy. The other changes what they believe.”

Jeeny: smiling softly “Exactly. One fills shelves. The other fills souls.”

Host: They stood there for a moment — two silhouettes framed against the burning light, the world still spinning beyond the glass. The noise of life outside pressed in, but inside, there was only stillness — the kind that comes after truth has finally been spoken.

And as the sunlight climbed higher, their shadows stretched together across the floor, blurring into one.