When so many are lonely as seem to be lonely, it would be

Host: The rain had stopped, but the streets still gleamed — long ribbons of silver reflecting the city’s bruised light. The night smelled of wet pavement and cigarette smoke, the kind of smell that felt both heavy and alive. Inside a quiet late-night diner, the hum of the neon sign outside painted the window in slow pulses of red and blue. The counter was empty except for two cups of coffee, two figures leaning in close across a corner booth.

Host: Jack sat slouched, the collar of his coat turned up, a trace of rain still clinging to his hair. Jeeny sat across from him, stirring her coffee even though it had gone cold. The jukebox in the corner whispered something slow and sad — a tune with too much heart to be background noise.

Jeeny: (softly) “Tennessee Williams once said, ‘When so many are lonely as seem to be lonely, it would be inexcusably selfish to be lonely alone.’”
(She looks up at him, eyes thoughtful.) “It’s a strange line, isn’t it? It sounds poetic, but also like an accusation.”

Jack: (nodding) “Yeah. It’s loneliness as a moral failure. Like he’s saying — if the whole world is aching, the least you can do is ache together.”

Jeeny: “But can loneliness really be shared? Isn’t that the point of it — that it isolates you?”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what he was fighting against. He spent his life surrounded by pain — in himself, in others — and maybe he thought loneliness becomes cruelty when you don’t let someone else understand it.”

Host: The neon sign flickered, casting the word “OPEN” across the table, glowing briefly on their hands, then fading again.

Jeeny: “It’s ironic, though. To talk about loneliness as a kind of generosity. Like we owe our sadness to each other.”

Jack: “Maybe we do. Because loneliness turns toxic when it stays private. It feeds on itself. But when you share it — even a little — it becomes something else. Compassion, maybe. Or art.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “So you think misery loves company?”

Jack: “Not misery — humanity. We’re all walking around pretending we’re fine, but Williams knew that pretending kills you faster than pain.”

Host: The waitress refilled their cups, not asking if they wanted more. The steam rose, curling into the air between them, ghostlike.

Jeeny: “You know, I read once that Williams wrote because he couldn’t stop breaking his own heart. That every character he made was just another lonely voice reaching for another.”

Jack: “That makes sense. Writing’s the most beautiful way to say, ‘Please, someone, hear me.’”

Jeeny: “And being heard is the opposite of being alone.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Host: The rain began again, gentle this time, tapping against the window like small, hesitant thoughts.

Jeeny: “It’s strange. We live in a time where people can talk to thousands every day — messages, calls, posts — and yet we’re lonelier than ever.”

Jack: “Because conversation isn’t connection. You can drown in noise and still die of silence.”

Jeeny: (nodding slowly) “So maybe that’s what he meant — that it’s selfish to keep your loneliness private when someone else might recognize themselves in it.”

Jack: “Yeah. Sharing pain doesn’t double it — it divides it.”

Jeeny: “And sometimes it even turns into understanding.”

Jack: “Exactly. Loneliness shared becomes something tender, almost holy.”

Host: The sound of the rain grew steadier, and the city beyond the window blurred into abstraction — colors and motion, faceless and infinite. Inside, the diner felt like an island, two souls suspended in their own small pocket of warmth.

Jeeny: “You think Tennessee believed he could cure his loneliness by writing about it?”

Jack: “No. I think he just learned to live with it better by naming it.”

Jeeny: “Naming makes it real.”

Jack: “And what’s real can be endured.”

Jeeny: “That’s what stories do — they turn private pain into public truth.”

Jack: “Exactly. And in doing that, they remind us that being lonely isn’t unique. It’s the most universal thing there is.”

Host: The jukebox changed songs, the needle catching for a moment before slipping into something softer. The melody filled the diner, tender and old — the kind that makes time itself hesitate.

Jeeny: (after a long pause) “You know, I used to hide my loneliness. I thought it made me weak. But lately… I think it’s the only honest part of me.”

Jack: (quietly) “That’s because loneliness strips away everything false. What’s left is who you really are.”

Jeeny: “And who are you when you’re lonely?”

Jack: (after a pause) “Someone who finally stops performing. Someone real.”

Jeeny: “So loneliness isn’t the absence of love — it’s the end of illusion.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Host: The rain slowed again, as if listening. The air inside the diner had thickened with warmth and silence, the kind that asks for no explanation.

Jeeny: “Do you think we could ever stop being lonely? Or is that just a condition of being alive?”

Jack: “I think it’s both — the curse and the cure. We’re lonely because we’re separate, but that separateness is what makes connection sacred.”

Jeeny: “So loneliness reminds us that we still want to belong.”

Jack: “And that we still can.”

Host: The waitress turned off the neon sign, leaving only the dim lights inside. The word “OPEN” vanished from their reflections in the window, replaced by the faint glow of streetlights.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe that’s why it’s selfish to be lonely alone. Because loneliness is the one thing we all have in common — the bridge we keep forgetting to cross.”

Jack: “Yeah. Maybe the only way to make peace with being human is to stop pretending our pain is private.”

Jeeny: “And to let others in, even if they can’t fix it.”

Jack: “Especially then.”

Host: The rain stopped completely, and for a moment, the world outside seemed to hold its breath. Inside the diner, only the faint clink of ceramic cups broke the stillness.

And in that silence — small, real, and fragile — Tennessee Williams’s words seemed to echo softly through the air:

that loneliness shared is no longer exile,
but communion;
that every heart, in its isolation,
is a fragment of the same vast ache;
and that to reach across that ache
is not weakness,
but mercy.

Host: Jack looked out the window, watching the faint reflection of their faces side by side in the glass.

Jack: “You know what’s funny?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “I came here tonight because I didn’t want to be alone. And now that I’m here, I realize… neither do you.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Maybe that’s all connection really is — two people who admit it.”

Host: The light inside flickered once, and the city’s heartbeat returned — quiet, steady, endless.

And as they sat together, two small flames against the dark,
the truth of Tennessee Williams’s words lingered like the last taste of coffee:

that loneliness becomes bearable
the moment we stop being lonely
alone.