There does not seem to be that collegiality I referred to, there

Host: The morning light slanted through the tall windows of the office, pale and sterile. Dust hung in the air, catching the sun like suspended ash. Outside, the city stirred — cars blaring, footsteps echoing in the canyon of glass towers — but inside, everything felt still. Too still.

Jack stood by the window, arms crossed, his reflection superimposed over the skyline — half man, half phantom. Jeeny sat at the conference table, her hands folded over a folder of unspoken truths. The air between them was taut, charged with the silent electricity of two people who once believed in something — and now weren’t sure if it still existed.

The company was preparing for yet another round of layoffs. Emails had gone unanswered, whispers filled the hallways. The word collegiality — once printed proudly in the corporate handbook — had become a joke muttered at coffee machines.

Jeeny broke the silence first.

Jeeny: “Len Murray once said, ‘There does not seem to be that collegiality I referred to, there seems to be much more of a them versus us attitude, rather than we all have a role to play in this process so let’s get on with it.’”

Host: Her voice was calm, but there was tiredness beneath it — the kind that comes not from sleepless nights, but from watching faith erode grain by grain.

Jack: “Collegiality?” (He scoffs.) “That word’s for idealists and HR brochures. In the real world, Jeeny, it’s us versus them. Always has been. Management versus employees. Strong versus weak. Winners versus those who get cut.”

Jeeny: “That’s the sickness, Jack. That’s exactly what he was talking about. The moment we start dividing ourselves into sides, we stop building anything worth belonging to.”

Host: Jack turned from the window, his grey eyes sharp, restless. His voice carried the edge of someone who had fought too many silent wars in boardrooms and seen too many people broken by policy.

Jack: “You talk like unity can pay bills. Like we can all hold hands and the economy will suddenly play fair. Look around — people are scared. Fear breeds sides. That’s not malice; it’s survival.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s surrender. Fear doesn’t excuse walls. It explains them, sure — but it doesn’t justify them. You think solidarity is naïve? Tell that to the miners of 1984. They stood shoulder to shoulder against a system that tried to starve them out. Len Murray himself led that fight — not to make enemies, but to remind people that ‘we’ means something.”

Jack: “And yet the mines closed. The unions broke. What did their ‘we’ get them? Empty homes and promises carved in stone.”

Host: The light shifted, spilling across the table, cutting both faces in half — one half in light, the other in shadow. The contrast was almost biblical: belief and bitterness sharing the same frame.

Jeeny: “So you’d rather let cynicism run the place? Turn every meeting into a battlefield?”

Jack: “It already is. Every time I walk into this office, I’m reminded that collaboration is just another word for competition disguised. Everyone’s protecting their turf. You think teamwork survives when promotions are scarce and trust’s a luxury?”

Host: A faint hum from the air conditioner filled the pause, the cold mechanical sound echoing their emotional distance. Jeeny leaned forward, her eyes intense but soft, like fire behind glass.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why it’s dying — because everyone’s waiting for someone else to start. We all hide behind cynicism like armor, and then wonder why the world feels colder. You say it’s survival, Jack, but what kind of survival kills the soul of the place?”

Jack: “A realistic one. The kind that keeps you from getting crushed by ideals. You think the CEO upstairs feels collegial with the janitor downstairs? Don’t kid yourself. Hierarchies aren’t evil — they’re structure. They exist because equality, as beautiful as it sounds, doesn’t function in systems that run on pressure.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Hierarchies exist because people forget to see each other. Because it’s easier to measure worth in salaries than in sincerity.”

Host: The room pulsed with unspoken memory — of past meetings, of laughter that had once filled this space before paranoia took over. The sunlight now burned brighter, drawing lines of gold across the polished table, like faint borders between what they once believed and what remained.

Jeeny: “Do you remember when we started here? We worked late nights, shared takeout, built campaigns together. There was no ‘us versus them.’ We believed in the same goal — in something beyond job titles.”

Jack: (quietly) “That was before the cuts. Before the walls went up.”

Jeeny: “Then tear them down. Someone has to start.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. His hand gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles whitened.

Jack: “And what if the others don’t follow? What if you’re the only one who stands up — and you get fired for believing too hard?”

Jeeny: “Then at least I’ll still be able to look at myself. The worst prisons aren’t built by others, Jack — they’re built by the compromises we make with our own fear.”

Host: Her words struck him like a quiet blow. He turned away again, staring out at the city — the labyrinth of ambition and fatigue. Down below, people hurried along the sidewalks, briefcases in hand, each one an island of worry and motion.

Jack: “You sound like those old labor speeches my father used to play. He believed in unity too — until he got laid off. He used to say, ‘We’re all in this together.’ The day he packed his box, nobody said a word. Nobody helped. He died believing he was part of something that wasn’t real.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe our job isn’t to resurrect what was real — it’s to make it real now. You think people like Murray didn’t see betrayal? They did. But they still believed in trying. That’s what separates progress from decay.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked — loud, deliberate. Each second felt heavier, like a verdict.

Jack: “Maybe I just don’t have your faith anymore.”

Jeeny: “Then borrow mine. For once.”

Host: The light softened now, mellow and forgiving. It caught the faint tremor in Jack’s hand, the subtle weariness behind his words.

Jack: “You really think we can fix this culture? That people can stop seeing each other as enemies?”

Jeeny: “I think we have to. Because the moment we stop trying — the moment we accept ‘us versus them’ as the norm — we lose not just our jobs, but our humanity. You can’t build anything lasting in a warzone, Jack. Not a company. Not a country. Not even a friendship.”

Host: The city roared faintly below — a reminder of life moving on, indifferent yet full of potential.

Jack: “So what do we do, Jeeny? Pretend we’re a team until it’s true?”

Jeeny: “Not pretend. Choose. Choose to act like we are. Even if it’s just two of us, it’s a start.”

Host: The sunlight reached the far end of the room, illuminating the company’s mission statement engraved on the wall — ‘Together We Rise.’ Dust clung to the letters, but in that moment, they shimmered faintly.

Jack looked at it for a long while, then turned back to her.

Jack: “You really think two people can change an entire system?”

Jeeny: “No. But they can remind it what it’s supposed to be.”

Host: A long silence followed — not empty, but full. Jack finally let out a low breath, something between resignation and release.

Jack: “Alright then. Let’s get on with it.”

Host: Jeeny smiled — small, tired, but radiant in its truth. The tension broke, dissolving into something lighter, almost sacred.

Outside, the morning grew brighter. The sun climbed higher, spilling gold across the office floor. The two of them sat in the quiet, no longer opponents, but allies — not because the world had changed, but because they had decided to.

And somewhere between the hum of the city and the ticking of the clock, the spirit of Len Murray’s words lingered — a whisper, a call, a beginning.

The beginning of we.