When it comes to social media, there are just times I turn off

Host: The room glowed with the blue pulse of too many screens. It was late — the kind of late that made the air feel electric but empty, the hum of notifications like a nervous heartbeat.

Through the wide window, the city pulsed — neon veins, cars moving like red blood cells through arteries of concrete. But inside, the world was quieter — almost, but not quite.

Jack sat hunched over a laptop, eyes reflecting the restless light of an endless feed. His thumb scrolled through a glowing maze of images, laughter, outrage, beauty, envy — all bleeding together.

Across the room, Jeeny unplugged her phone, wrapped the cord like a ritual, and placed it face down on the table. She stood by the window, arms crossed, watching the distant skyline breathe.

On the television, muted but subtitled, a quote appeared during a talk show replay:

“When it comes to social media, there are just times I turn off the world, you know. There are just some times you have to give yourself space to be quiet, which means you've got to set those phones down.”
— Michelle Obama

Jack: (without looking up) “Turn off the world. Sounds convenient, doesn’t it?”

Jeeny: “It’s not about convenience. It’s about survival.”

Jack: “Survival? You make it sound like Instagram’s the apocalypse.”

Jeeny: “It kind of is. A quiet apocalypse — the kind that doesn’t burn cities, just attention spans.”

Jack: (smirking) “So we set down our phones and pretend the world gets better?”

Jeeny: “No. We set them down so we can remember there’s a world outside of them.”

Host: The light from Jack’s screen flickered across his face — pale, tired, relentless. The room around him glowed in blue undertones, like a shallow ocean with no surface in sight.

Jeeny turned from the window, her voice soft, but heavy with the weight of someone who’s watched too many people drown in the same sea.

Jeeny: “Do you ever notice how scrolling feels like breathing underwater? You keep going, hoping to find air, but all you get is another wave of noise.”

Jack: “Noise is how people stay alive now. Silence feels like drowning.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Silence is where you finally breathe.”

Jack: (snorts) “That’s easy for you to say. You talk about silence like it’s holy. But you know what silence really is for most people? Loneliness in disguise.”

Jeeny: “And you think a comment section cures that?”

Jack: (shrugging) “At least it fills the space.”

Jeeny: “Fills it with what? Opinions that disappear in twenty-four hours? Filters that make lies look beautiful?”

Jack: “Maybe lies are what people need. A prettier version of their chaos.”

Jeeny: “No. What they need is the courage to face it without hiding behind a screen.”

Host: A faint rumble of thunder rolled through the distance. The city lights shimmered in response, and for a brief moment, every billboard, every advertisement, every glowing screen seemed to take a synchronized breath.

The storm outside — real, unpredictable — made the room’s artificial calm feel smaller.

Jack closed his laptop with a reluctant sigh, the sound of it loud in the silence that followed.

Jack: “You know, Michelle Obama makes it sound simple — ‘set your phone down, find quiet.’ But quiet’s a luxury. The world doesn’t stop buzzing just because you unplug.”

Jeeny: “No, it doesn’t. But you can. You can stop feeding the buzz. You can stop confusing connection with attention.”

Jack: “You’re talking like social media’s evil. It’s not. It’s just a mirror. People show the world who they wish they were.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And the tragedy is — they forget who they already are.”

Jack: “You think turning it off makes them remember?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes remembering starts with forgetting — forgetting the noise, the endless comparisons, the digital applause that means nothing when the screen goes black.”

Host: The lamp flickered once, as if responding to the tension between them. The only constant sound was the soft hum of electricity — modern silence, manufactured.

Jeeny walked toward the couch, sat across from him. The rain had begun to fall now, steady, rhythmic, like the pulse of a calmer universe.

Jeeny: “Do you ever miss boredom?”

Jack: “Boredom? No. It’s the one thing the internet cured.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It just replaced it with restlessness. Boredom used to be a doorway — to imagination, to reflection. Now it’s a void everyone’s afraid to feel.”

Jack: “So what, you want us to go back to staring at walls?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Maybe the wall had more to teach us than the feed ever did.”

Jack: (quietly) “That’s... kind of beautiful. And terrifying.”

Jeeny: “Most truths are both.”

Host: The rain deepened, tapping a gentle rhythm against the glass — a sound more ancient than language. Jack glanced toward the window, and for a fleeting moment, his face softened — as if the world, unfiltered and raw, had reminded him it still existed.

He spoke quietly, his voice carrying the tone of someone who’d forgotten he could mean what he said.

Jack: “You know, I think I used to like silence. Before it started feeling like punishment.”

Jeeny: “It’s not punishment, Jack. It’s presence. You just forgot how to sit inside it.”

Jack: “And what happens if I try?”

Jeeny: “You start to hear yourself again. And maybe — just maybe — that’s the voice you’ve been scrolling to find.”

Host: The light dimmed as a gust of wind shook the building. The world outside was still buzzing — cars, sirens, rain — but inside, the air thickened with a different kind of quiet.

Jeeny picked up her phone from the table, looked at it one last time, then pressed and held the button until the screen went black.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It was full — breathing, alive, real.

Jack hesitated, then reached for his own phone. His finger hovered above the power button like someone about to confess.

Jack: (softly) “If I turn it off... what if I miss something?”

Jeeny: “If you don’t, you’ll miss everything else.”

Jack: (after a pause) “You think the world will wait for me?”

Jeeny: “It’s been waiting all along.”

Host: The sound of rain filled the room completely now, erasing the thin hum of technology. The city outside continued its restless movement, but inside, two people sat in the rarest moment of modern life — a silence not bought, not forced, but chosen.

A silence that wasn’t empty, but human.

They didn’t speak again. They didn’t scroll. They just listened — to the rain, to the heartbeat of the room, to the small, fragile truth that the First Lady had whispered into a noisy world:

That sometimes, to hear life again,
you must set it down.

Host: The screens slept, the storm breathed, and for the first time in a long while, so did they.