There is a world of communication which is not dependent on

Host: The theatre was empty, its seats rising in curved rows like the steps of an ancient temple. Dust floated through the spotlight, suspended in silence — those small particles of memory that only exist in places once filled with sound. The faint scent of velvet curtains, old makeup, and ghost applause lingered in the air. On the stage, the floorboards were worn smooth from decades of feet — dancers, dreamers, and ghosts who’d all tried to say something the world could never quite hear.

Host: Jack stood at the center of that vast quiet, staring up into the rafters where the light rigs hung like constellations. He was dressed in black, hands shoved into his pockets, his posture taut with thought. Jeeny sat cross-legged near the edge of the stage, her eyes reflecting the dim gold of the work lights. Between them, a single microphone lay coiled on the floor — unplugged, unnecessary.

Host: She broke the silence first, her voice soft enough to sound like part of the dust itself.

Jeeny: “Mary Martin once said — ‘There is a world of communication which is not dependent on words.’”

Host: The lights buzzed faintly overhead, a mechanical hum that seemed to underscore her point.

Jack: “Then why do we spend our lives trying to find the right ones?” he said, his voice low. “If there’s another way to be understood, why does every silence feel like failure?”

Jeeny: “Because silence scares people,” she said. “It makes them face themselves.”

Jack: “And you think words don’t?”

Jeeny: “Words are shields,” she said, looking at him now. “Silence is surrender.”

Host: He paced slowly, the floorboards creaking under his boots.

Jack: “You sound like an actress.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I am,” she said with a small smile. “But you’re the one rehearsing your pain.”

Host: The words landed like a soft blow — gentle, but precise. Jack stopped pacing. His hands tightened in his pockets.

Jack: “So you think silence is some kind of truth?”

Jeeny: “No,” she said. “It’s an invitation. The space between hearts where words get in the way.”

Host: She reached down and ran her fingers over the stage floor, the wood warm from the lights above.

Jeeny: “Think about music,” she said. “It’s the notes that move you — but it’s the silence between them that gives it shape.”

Jack: “That’s poetic,” he said, “but try living without words. See how long it takes before you start screaming just to hear your own voice.”

Jeeny: “I have,” she said quietly. “And that’s how I learned that screaming doesn’t mean you’re being heard.”

Host: The tension deepened — not sharp, but slow, like gravity pulling two bodies closer.

Jack: “So what’s your alternative?” he asked. “Just stare at each other and hope our souls do the talking?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes, yes,” she said. “Because sometimes the soul says what the tongue can’t.”

Host: The light from the stage spilled across her face now, catching the faint shimmer of a tear that hadn’t yet fallen.

Jeeny: “When I took care of my mother,” she continued, “there were months when she couldn’t speak. But her eyes — they told me everything. Every pain, every apology, every memory. Not one word, Jack. But I heard her. Completely.”

Jack: “And what did that teach you?”

Jeeny: “That words are just the scaffolding. Connection doesn’t live in language — it lives in presence.”

Host: He looked at her, and for the first time, his gaze softened — the sharp cynicism blunted by something quieter, something like understanding.

Jack: “You know,” he said, “that’s what terrifies me. The idea that someone could see me — really see me — without me saying a thing.”

Jeeny: “That’s not terror,” she said gently. “That’s intimacy.”

Jack: “Same difference,” he muttered.

Jeeny: “No,” she said, smiling faintly. “Intimacy is when you stop being afraid of being known.”

Host: The house lights dimmed further as the sound of a distant thunder rolled outside — soft, like applause from the gods of forgotten theatres.

Jack: “You think we can really communicate without words?”

Jeeny: “We already are,” she said. “Every breath, every glance, every silence between our sentences — it’s all saying something.”

Host: Jack stared at her for a long moment, then slowly sat down beside her on the stage. The old wood groaned softly beneath their weight.

Jack: “You know, I once read that 93% of communication is nonverbal. But the remaining 7% — that’s where the poetry lives.”

Jeeny: “And the heartbreak,” she added.

Jack: “Yeah,” he said with a low laugh. “That too.”

Host: The silence that followed wasn’t empty — it was charged, alive, humming with all the things they hadn’t said.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how you can tell someone loves you by the way they hand you a cup?”

Jack: “No,” he said, glancing at her.

Jeeny: “You can,” she insisted softly. “It’s the way they linger a second too long. The way their fingers touch yours just enough to ask permission to stay.”

Jack: “That’s not communication,” he said. “That’s chemistry.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe they’re the same thing,” she said. “The world keeps separating them, but maybe love is just communication that learned how to breathe.”

Host: The thunder rumbled again, closer this time. A few raindrops tapped against the old windows of the theatre, faint percussion to the rhythm of their conversation.

Jack: “You think that’s what Martin meant?” he asked. “That there’s a language older than words?”

Jeeny: “I think she meant that expression doesn’t belong to the tongue. It belongs to the spirit. The eyes, the hands, the silence — they all speak first. Words are just the echo.”

Host: He looked at her then — really looked — and in the stillness, something shifted. Not loud. Not grand. Just real.

Jeeny smiled faintly. “See? You just said something.”

Jack: “I didn’t say anything.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The camera began to pull back, framing the two of them in the vast emptiness of the theatre — two small figures in an ocean of shadow and light. The stage lights dimmed, and the sound of rain grew louder, falling like applause across the roof.

Host: In that dim silence, Mary Martin’s words echoed again — not as performance, but as prayer:

Host: “There is a world of communication which is not dependent on words.”

Host: And as the lights faded, their silhouettes remained — a quiet testament to that truth.

Host: Because the truest conversations aren’t spoken. They’re felt — in glances, pauses, and the sacred electricity that lives between two hearts when the noise finally stops.