What a stupid attitude we have in this country to personal

Host: The rain had just stopped, leaving the streets slick with silver puddles that mirrored the city lights like fragments of a broken mirror. The air was cool, almost tender, carrying the scent of wet concrete and coffee from the shop on the corner.

Inside that café, tucked between a bookstore and a flower shop, Jack and Jeeny sat opposite each other in a dimly lit booth. A faint jazz tune floated through the speakers, soft enough to be ignored but too beautiful to forget.

On the wall beside them was a quote, written in chalk above the espresso machine:
"What a stupid attitude we have in this country to personal stories." — Amanda Burton.

Jeeny stirred her coffee slowly, her fingers tracing the rim of the cup. Her eyes — deep, brown, reflective — seemed to carry something unsaid.

Jeeny: “You ever think about that, Jack? How people in this country — we hide what actually makes us human. Like telling your story is shameful, like honesty’s an act of arrogance.”

Jack: (smirking faintly) “Maybe it is. Maybe we’ve just learned that the more people know, the more they judge. Vulnerability’s a kind of currency — and most people aren’t rich enough to spend it.”

Host: The rainlight outside shimmered through the glass, dripping slowly down the pane. The café was almost empty now — just the sound of a spoon clinking against a cup, the faint rustle of a newspaper turning.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that tragic? We build whole lives pretending not to feel. Everyone’s playing a part — smiling, nodding, posting pictures — while hiding the parts that matter. What’s wrong with saying, ‘I’m not okay today’? Why is that weakness?”

Jack: “Because people don’t want the truth, Jeeny. They want packaging. The moment you open up, you make them uncomfortable — remind them of their own cracks.”

Jeeny: “So we just stay quiet? All these millions of stories, swallowed because we’re afraid of embarrassing someone with honesty?”

Jack: “That’s the thing — everyone loves a story until it’s real. Until it’s messy. You tell someone about your divorce, your depression, your failure, and they nod politely, then change the subject. We don’t want humanity — we want narrative.”

Host: The light flickered. The barista switched off one of the overhead lamps, leaving only the golden glow from their table. The steam from their cups rose between them like faint ghosts of unspoken truths.

Jeeny leaned forward, her voice quiet but sharp.

Jeeny: “But stories are the only way we understand each other. You can’t connect through perfection, Jack. You connect through the scars — through the things you’re brave enough to say out loud.”

Jack: “You sound like a therapist.”

Jeeny: “No. Just someone who’s tired of pretending. You know what’s stupid? That we value fictional stories more than real ones. We cry over movies, we quote novels, but when someone tells us their truth — we flinch.”

Host: Her words hit him like cold rain. He looked at her, the usual armor of cynicism cracking just slightly.

Jack: “Maybe because fiction gives us control. Real life doesn’t. Real stories don’t have arcs, or heroes, or clean endings. Just chaos — and people don’t like chaos unless it’s curated.”

Jeeny: “So we turn our chaos into silence.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Host: The sound of the espresso machine hissed in the background — the room filling briefly with the scent of roasted beans and steam. Outside, the neon sign of the flower shop flickered — Open Late, blinking in rhythm with their thoughts.

Jeeny: “You know, when I was a kid, I used to write everything down. Every feeling, every fight, every stupid heartbreak. My mother found one of my journals once — and instead of asking me what I felt, she told me to stop being dramatic. I stopped writing for years after that.”

Jack: “So that’s where your silence started.”

Jeeny: “And where yours?”

Jack: (shrugs) “Somewhere between my father saying, ‘Don’t talk about family matters outside the house,’ and my boss reminding me that emotions make you look weak. I guess I learned that silence keeps you safe.”

Jeeny: “Safe, maybe. But empty.”

Host: The café had grown quiet — even the jazz had faded into the hum of the refrigerator. For a long moment, neither spoke. They just sat there, the space between them heavy with everything unsaid — two people shaped by silence, trying to unlearn it in real time.

Jack: (after a pause) “You know, I think Amanda Burton was right. It is stupid. The way we treat stories like confessions. Like something to hide. But maybe it’s not just cultural — maybe it’s fear. The moment you tell your story, it stops being yours.”

Jeeny: “It becomes someone else’s lens.”

Jack: “Exactly. They edit it, interpret it, question it. They make it smaller so they can handle it.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that better than keeping it buried? Even if people misunderstand, at least it’s out there — breathing.”

Jack: “Maybe. But people don’t want breathing stories. They want polished ones. Ones that end in redemption, or triumph, or clarity. No one wants the messy middle.”

Jeeny: “But that’s life, Jack — one big messy middle. And maybe if we told our stories more honestly, we wouldn’t feel so alone in it.”

Host: The rain began again — gentle, rhythmic, steady, tapping against the windows like a soft applause. Jeeny turned toward it, her reflection merging with the city’s blurred glow.

Jeeny: “You know what I wish? That people treated their stories like art, not evidence. You don’t justify a painting — you just feel it. But with our lives, we keep apologizing for being human.”

Jack: “Because we’re afraid of the critics.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time to write for ourselves.”

Host: The clock above the counter ticked softly, marking the quiet rhythm of their thoughts. Jack leaned back, his expression no longer hard — just thoughtful, maybe even vulnerable.

Jack: “You really think stories can change that?”

Jeeny: “Stories are all that ever have. The Bible, revolutions, movements, love letters — all stories. The only stupid attitude is pretending they don’t matter.”

Host: A long silence followed — not empty this time, but full, like a held breath before something honest is spoken. Jack finally nodded, his voice low.

Jack: “Maybe we just forgot how to listen. Maybe that’s the real tragedy.”

Jeeny: “Then let’s start listening again — even if it’s just to each other.”

Host: The barista dimmed the final light, leaving them in the amber glow of the street outside. Jack reached for his coat, hesitated, then smiled faintly.

Jack: “Tell me one.”

Jeeny: (surprised) “What?”

Jack: “A personal story. Something real. No metaphors, no quotes. Just you.”

Host: She laughed softly, nervous but willing.

Jeeny: “Okay… once, when I was twelve, I stood on a hill behind my grandmother’s house during a storm. I was terrified, but I didn’t run. I wanted to see what courage looked like. Turns out — it looks like standing in the rain, shaking, and not hiding from it.”

Jack: “And did it change you?”

Jeeny: “No. But it stayed with me. And that’s enough.”

Host: The rain softened again, almost like the world’s applause had turned into understanding. Jack looked at her — really looked — and something unspoken passed between them.

Jack: “You should write that down.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “No need. I just told it.”

Host: The doorbell chimed as they stepped out into the night, the smell of rain meeting the hum of the street. Behind them, the chalkboard quote remained, its white letters glowing faintly in the dim café light:

"What a stupid attitude we have in this country to personal stories."

But out on the street, beneath the streetlamps and the wet reflections of the city, two people had just rewritten that attitude — one story, one confession, one shared silence at a time.