There are many deaf people who couldn't imagine living in a

Host: The evening rain whispered against the window, soft and steady, like a gentle heartbeat beneath the hum of the city. A dim streetlight flickered outside, spilling pale gold across the small apartment, where shadows stretched across the walls like fragments of untold stories. The faint aroma of tea lingered in the air, mingling with the quiet tension that sat between them.

Jack leaned against the windowsill, his arms crossed, his grey eyes following the droplets tracing paths down the glass. Jeeny sat on the edge of the couch, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes steady but distant — like someone who’s just realized that understanding and love don’t always walk hand in hand.

For a long time, neither spoke. The only sound was the rain and the faint ticking of the clock — patient, indifferent.

Then Jeeny broke the silence. Her voice was soft but certain.

Jeeny: “Marlee Matlin once said, ‘There are many deaf people who couldn’t imagine living in a marriage without someone who doesn’t speak their language. For me, I believe that hearing or deaf is fine as long as both parties are willing to communicate in each other’s language. But if there’s no communication, then the marriage, I believe, will be difficult if not doomed.’”

Jack: (without turning) “She’s right about one thing — it’s not the difference that ruins people. It’s the silence between them.”

Host: The rain intensified for a moment, a sudden rush against the glass, as if echoing his words. Jeeny looked up, studying him in the dim light — the way his shoulders carried an invisible weight, the way his tone always hid something softer beneath the steel.

Jeeny: “You make it sound simple. But silence isn’t always a choice. Sometimes it’s just... what’s left when words stop working.”

Jack: (turning slightly) “No, Jeeny. Silence is a choice. People stop speaking long before they run out of words. They stop trying. That’s the death of it — not misunderstanding, not difference, but indifference.”

Host: He walked to the table, his boots thudding softly against the wooden floor, and poured himself a cup of cold coffee. The light from the streetlamp caught the edge of the cup, turning it into a dull circle of reflection — half-dark, half-gold.

Jeeny: “You think communication is just talking? Some of the worst arguments I’ve ever had were full of words. Loud ones. Honest ones. And still, nothing was understood.”

Jack: “That’s because most people listen to respond, not to understand. They think communication is a transaction. It’s not. It’s translation — the hardest kind.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes softened, but her voice carried the quiet strength of conviction.

Jeeny: “Exactly. Translation. That’s what Marlee was talking about — not speech, not sound, but effort. Imagine what it means to love someone enough to learn their language. Whether it’s sign, silence, or something beyond words — that’s communication.”

Jack: (gruffly) “And what if you try, and they don’t meet you halfway? You can’t carry a conversation for two.”

Jeeny: “Then you’ll carry the truth alone. But at least you’ll know you tried. Most people don’t even do that much.”

Host: A flash of lightning illuminated the room, throwing their silhouettes onto the wall — two figures divided by light, united by shadow. The rain outside eased into a rhythm again, softer now, almost contemplative.

Jack: “I’ve seen marriages crumble over smaller things. A difference in faith, money, time. But communication — that’s the silent killer. People fall in love with what they think the other person means. Then one day they realize they were speaking different languages all along.”

Jeeny: “And still, you believe in logic more than empathy. You talk about misunderstanding like it’s a technical error — a glitch to fix. But communication isn’t about efficiency, Jack. It’s about vulnerability.”

Jack: “Vulnerability gets people hurt.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Lack of vulnerability does. When you build walls high enough to protect yourself, you also block out the person who’s trying to reach you.”

Host: Her voice quivered, not from fear but from truth. Jack’s jaw tightened, his eyes flicking away as if avoiding the reflection in her words. The clock ticked louder now, every second carving deeper into the silence that followed.

Jack: “Maybe people just aren’t meant to fully understand each other. Maybe that’s the point — the mystery keeps things alive.”

Jeeny: “Mystery can be beautiful, but not when it becomes a barrier. Love without communication isn’t mystery — it’s loneliness dressed in poetry.”

Host: The rain had almost stopped now. Only the occasional drop slid down the window, like the remnants of something that had tried too hard to hold on.

Jack: (quietly) “You know, when I was younger, I dated someone who was deaf. She taught me a few signs — enough to say hello, sorry, I miss you. I thought it was enough. But one night, she told me that she felt like she was loving me in stereo while I only listened in mono. I didn’t understand then.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I do. I was speaking, but not communicating. I was hearing, but not listening.”

Host: The air grew still. The streetlight outside steadied, no longer flickering, its glow soft and golden. Jeeny’s eyes glistened, not with tears, but with the kind of empathy that turns pain into understanding.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the hardest lesson of love — that it’s not about finding someone who speaks like you. It’s about learning to listen in their language, even when it’s inconvenient.”

Jack: “So you think every love needs translation?”

Jeeny: “Every real one does. Communication isn’t what happens naturally — it’s what we build intentionally.”

Host: Jack set his coffee down, the sound of the cup against the table soft but final, like the punctuation of a long sentence. He looked at her, the hardness in his expression giving way to something weary, human.

Jack: “Maybe Marlee’s right. Deaf, hearing — it doesn’t matter. What kills a marriage isn’t what’s missing in the body; it’s what’s missing in the bridge between hearts.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Love isn’t about hearing. It’s about understanding.”

Host: Outside, the last of the rain ceased. The city exhaled — the sound of distant tires on wet pavement, a child laughing somewhere down the street. In the room, a quiet peace settled, fragile yet complete.

Jeeny rose from the couch and walked to the window. She traced one finger through the condensation, drawing a small heart that began to fade even as she finished it.

Jeeny: “Every relationship is a language lesson, Jack. The question is — are we willing to learn, or just waiting to be understood?”

Host: Jack watched the heart vanish, leaving only the faint outline of her touch. He didn’t answer — but for once, his silence wasn’t a wall. It was a bridge.

The light from the street poured across their faces, soft and forgiving. Two people — divided by reason, united by truth — stood in the quiet aftermath of understanding.

And outside, the city pulsed on, a symphony of countless conversations — some spoken, some signed, all searching for the same thing: the sound of being truly heard.