There are things that people say that hurt my feelings or

Host: The rain outside hit the window like a thousand tiny drumbeats — restless, uncertain, alive. The city lights blurred through the glass, a smear of neon blue and amber, washing the room in soft melancholy. In the corner of a small studio apartment, the only light came from a laptop screen, its glow carving two faces out of the dark — Jack, hunched forward, eyes tired but alert; and Jeeny, cross-legged on the couch, scrolling through her phone, the faint white light flickering against her face like the reflection of a storm.

Host: Between them lay a silence made of noise — digital, invisible, endless. It wasn’t the kind of silence that was empty, but the kind that buzzed — filled with everything left unsaid, unread, unseen.

Host: And then, out of nowhere, Jeeny spoke — softly, but with that tone that carried both fragility and fire.

“There are things that people say that hurt my feelings or whatever, especially with social media right now. It can be the most amazing thing, and it can also be the most negative and detrimental thing.” — Zendaya

Host: She didn’t say it as a quote. She said it as if it belonged to her.

Jack: leaning back, rubbing his eyes “She’s right, you know. The internet’s like fire — warms your hands one minute, burns your house down the next.”

Jeeny: still scrolling “Yeah. And somehow we all keep playing with matches.”

Jack: smirking “Because it’s addictive.”

Jeeny: looking up from her phone “No. Because it gives us attention. And we mistake attention for affection.”

Jack: quietly “Same difference.”

Jeeny: sharply “No, Jack. It’s not. Affection heals. Attention drains.”

Host: The laptop screen flickered, a notification popping up — comments, likes, shares. Digital applause, hollow and fleeting. Jack closed the lid. The light vanished, leaving only the sound of rain and the echo of their breathing.

Jack: “You ever post something you wish you could take back?”

Jeeny: laughing bitterly “You mean today or this week?”

Jack: smiles faintly “Both.”

Jeeny: “Yeah. I posted a painting I’d been working on for months. Poured everything into it. Then someone commented, ‘Derivative. Feels lazy.’ One sentence, and it erased three months of joy.”

Jack: softly “You let strangers decide your worth.”

Jeeny: “You say that like it’s a choice.”

Jack: nodding slowly “Maybe it is. Maybe not anymore.”

Host: The rain grew louder, the window rattling slightly under the wind. Outside, a billboard flickered — an influencer’s face caught mid-laugh, frozen in perpetual perfection.

Jeeny: staring out at it “That’s the thing, isn’t it? Everyone’s performing. Constantly. You wake up, filter your face, filter your thoughts, filter your feelings — until even your pain has an aesthetic.”

Jack: dryly “You make it sound like a crime.”

Jeeny: “It’s not a crime. It’s a mask. But the worst part? The longer you wear it, the harder it is to remember your own face.”

Jack: quietly “I think we’ve all forgotten.”

Host: The sound of a phone vibration filled the silence — another message, another demand for presence. Jeeny ignored it.

Jeeny: softly “You know, when Zendaya says it’s both amazing and detrimental — she’s not being dramatic. She’s being honest. Because the same people who lift you up are the ones who tear you down the next day. They build pedestals just to enjoy watching them crumble.”

Jack: grimly “Yeah. Empathy doesn’t go viral.”

Jeeny: “Neither does sincerity.”

Jack: after a pause “You think she ever gets used to it?”

Jeeny: “No one does. You just get better at hiding the bruise.”

Host: The rain softened, turning into a fine mist against the glass. The city beyond blurred into watercolor — beautiful from afar, chaotic up close.

Jack: “It’s strange. We built something to connect everyone — and somehow, it made us lonelier.”

Jeeny: “Because connection without compassion isn’t human. It’s data.”

Jack: “You really think people can’t be kind online?”

Jeeny: “They can. But anonymity makes cowards brave and good hearts silent.”

Jack: nodding slowly “So what do we do?”

Jeeny: “We remember the difference between attention and intimacy. Between an audience and a friend.”

Host: Jeeny set her phone down, face-down this time, like it had finally lost its hold on her. She stood and walked toward the window, the city lights reflecting off the glass — a mosaic of color and distortion.

Jeeny: “You know what scares me most?”

Jack: looking up “What?”

Jeeny: “That we’ll get so used to this noise — the scrolling, the judging, the constant stimulation — that silence will start to feel wrong. Like peace will start to feel empty.”

Jack: quietly “Maybe it already does.”

Host: The words landed heavy — the kind of truth that doesn’t echo, just settles like dust in the air.

Jeeny: softly “Sometimes I wish we could all unplug for a week. Just… vanish. See what parts of us survive the quiet.”

Jack: half-smiling “You’d last three days.”

Jeeny: laughing “You’d last three hours.”

Jack: shrugs “Fair. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe the silence would force us to feel what we’ve been dodging.”

Jeeny: gently “And what’s that?”

Jack: after a pause “Ourselves.”

Host: A long silence followed — the kind that hummed with vulnerability. The rain had stopped completely now. The only sound was the faint hum of the city and the beating of two human hearts learning, once again, how to listen.

Jeeny: turning from the window “You know, it’s easy to forget that behind every comment, every post, there’s a person — scared, hopeful, lonely, just trying to matter.”

Jack: nodding “And we forget that empathy doesn’t trend.”

Jeeny: “No. But maybe it should.”

Host: Jack reopened the laptop, but instead of scrolling, he typed — slowly, thoughtfully. Jeeny watched as the words appeared on the screen:

“Kindness doesn’t need to be loud to be heard.”

Jeeny: softly “Post it.”

Jack: smiling faintly “Nah. I think I’ll just remember it.”

Host: The screen dimmed, and the room fell back into that strange peace — the one that feels fragile but true.

Host: The camera pulled back, revealing the small apartment from outside the window — two figures framed by the soft after-rain glow, sitting in silence not because they had nothing left to say, but because they finally didn’t need to fill the quiet.

Host: And over the hush of the city, Zendaya’s words lingered like a truth we keep learning and forgetting:

that the same tools we use to connect
can also cut —
that what we build to be amazing
can just as easily be detrimental
if we forget the heart that built it.

Host: The lights dimmed, the rain began again — softly, gently — and for the first time that night, the world outside felt calm.