Thinking of Internet chat rooms or AIM as a kind - there's such

Host: The room was dim, lit only by the pale glow of screens and the slow pulse of city lights beyond the window. It was almost midnight. Rain had begun to fall, tapping on the glass in a rhythm that sounded like typing — a soft, familiar click, click, click.

A laptop hummed on the table, its light spilling over two faces — Jack, with his grey eyes sharp and focused, and Jeeny, whose dark hair fell across her shoulders like a curtain of shadow. They were in an old apartment, walls lined with books, mugs, and cables. A faint melancholy hung in the air, as if the room itself had been listening to too many late-night messages.

Jeeny had just read the quote aloud, her voice quiet but alive with curiosity:

“Thinking of Internet chat rooms or AIM as a kind — there’s such an intimacy and honesty to tapping on your phone, despite how quick people are to damn digital means of communication as emotionless or too abstract.” — Liv Bruce

The words seemed to vibrate between them, like a message still waiting for its reply.

Jeeny: “I love that. The idea that digital words can still be intimate, honest. It’s like — even without touch, people still reach each other. You can feel the heart through text, you know?”

Jack: “You can feel something, sure. But is it real? You can type anything, Jeeny. You can edit, pause, pretend. That’s not intimacy — that’s control.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, and the room filled with its soft percussion. Jeeny leaned back, her fingers tapping the table unconsciously, like she was texting invisible words.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what letters were, once? People used to pour their souls into ink. We call those love letters now. Nobody said they were fake because they weren’t spoken. Why should screens be any different?”

Jack: “Because a screen isn’t paper, Jeeny. You can’t smell it, fold it, or keep it in a drawer. You can just delete it. Love, confession, grief — all gone with a tap. There’s no weight to that.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the weight isn’t in the medium. Maybe it’s in the moment. The click of a message sent at 2 a.m., when you can’t sleep. The pause before a reply. That’s its own kind of heartbeat, isn’t it?”

Host: A small smile crossed her lips, soft but defiant. Jack watched her — and for a moment, the light from the screen made her eyes look like they were reflecting galaxies.

Jack: “You romanticize it. You want to believe the Internet is human. But half the time it’s just echoes — people shouting into voids, pretending someone’s listening.”

Jeeny: “And yet… sometimes someone is. You know, I once met a girl online who was going through the same grief I was. We talked for months. I never even knew her real name. But she saved me, Jack. I cried with her. I laughed with her. Tell me that wasn’t real.”

Host: The room was quiet except for the hum of the computer fan. Jack’s fingers tightened around his coffee mug. His jaw shifted — a small sign that something inside him had moved, though he tried to hide it.

Jack: “I’m not saying your feelings weren’t real. But what if that girl wasn’t who she said she was? What if you were just talking to a mask?”

Jeeny: “Then I loved the mask, Jack. Because in that moment, the mask was kind. It listened. It understood. Maybe that’s enough.”

Host: A pause — heavy, fragile. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, and the city’s lights were now reflected in the window like a thousand tiny messages, each one waiting to be read.

Jack: “You know what I think? I think digital communication is the illusion of connection. You get to feel close without actually being close. You get to confess without risk.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what makes it beautiful? The safety of distance lets people say what they really feel. Like Liv Bruce said — people damn digital talk for being emotionless, but I think it’s the opposite. It’s where people can finally be honest.”

Jack: “Honest behind a screen, sure. But what about when you face someone? You can’t edit your tremble, or your silence. That’s when you really mean it.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe that’s when you lie the most — when you’re scared of what your face will show. People hide better in person than they do in text, Jack. In text, there’s no performance — just words, raw and naked.”

Host: Jack stood, walked to the window, and stared at the rain-soaked street below. The light from a passing bus flickered across his face, showing a man torn between logic and memory.

Jack: (softly) “You ever think we’re just lonely? That’s why we cling to these screens. Because they make silence feel less like a void and more like a room we can fill.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But even loneliness can be shared. That’s what makes it bearable. Sometimes, two people typing into the dark are closer than two people sitting in the same room.”

Host: The screen’s light flickered, casting long shadows over the walls — like echoes of all the unseen faces who had once typed, cried, confessed, laughed. The air was thick with memories that weren’t theirs but somehow belonged to them too.

Jack: “You ever read the old letters between poets? Like Rilke and his lovers? That was intimacy. The waiting, the weight of paper, the handwriting trembling on the page. That’s what’s gone now — the slowness.”

Jeeny: “But maybe that’s what’s evolved. We don’t have to wait months for a response anymore. Now, feelings travel in milliseconds. You can say ‘I miss you’ and hear ‘me too’ before the tear even falls.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “You really think that’s better?”

Jeeny: “Not better. Just different. But still real. The world changes, Jack. But connection — that’s the one thing that adapts. It finds new languages.”

Host: The sound of the rain had faded, but the room still vibrated with a strange, invisible electricity — the kind that fills the air right before someone finally understands something.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe there’s something honest in the digital — not despite the distance, but because of it.”

Jeeny: “That’s what I believe. The Internet, the messages, the late-night typing — they’re just new ways of saying: ‘I’m here. I hear you.’”

Host: Jack sat again, looking at her, his expression softer now. The screen’s glow reflected in his eyes, making them seem a little less grey, a little more alive.

Jack: “Funny, isn’t it? We talk about how these devices disconnect us — and yet, here we are, talking because of them.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Exactly. We call it artificial, but maybe it’s the most human thing we do — trying to reach someone who isn’t in the room.”

Host: The clock ticked past midnight. The rain had stopped completely, leaving only the faint echo of dripping water in the alley. Jeeny’s hand moved across the table, her fingers brushing Jack’s. For a second, neither spoke — the silence between them filled with all the unsent messages, all the words that lived between screens and souls.

Jack: “You know… I used to think digital intimacy was a kind of illusion. Now I think it’s just a mirror — showing us what we really crave.”

Jeeny: “And what’s that?”

Jack: “To be heard. Even if it’s only through typing.”

Host: The screen finally dimmed, the light softened, and the city outside began to breathe again. Somewhere in the distance, a notification sound pinged — small, tender, like the echo of a heartbeat.

Jeeny smiled, and Jack smiled back — a simple exchange, but no less intimate than a touch.

The camera would pull back slowly, fading to the window, where the reflection of two faces glowed faintly beside a dark screen — a final, silent message:
That even in the age of distance, connection still finds its way.