With social media, there is a fashion that we speak louder than

Host: The night was restless.
A thousand screens flickered through the city like restless souls, each window glowing with invisible arguments, half-spoken truths, and digital flames that never quite died. The air inside the café was warm, heavy with espresso, light, and the muted buzz of conversation — people scrolling, swiping, reacting.

In a dim corner near the window, Jack sat hunched over his phone, the blue light staining his face with cold intensity. Jeeny sat across from him, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea, untouched, her eyes tracing the quiet chaos of the world outside.

The rain was falling — thin, nervous, electric.

Jeeny: “Hazel Keech said something that feels more true every day — ‘With social media, there is a fashion that we speak louder than we think. It has just become a platform where people just judge and spread anger and hate.’”

Jack: “She’s not wrong. But that’s not new. We’ve always shouted louder than we’ve thought — social media just gave us an echo chamber big enough to enjoy it.”

Host: His voice was calm but edged with fatigue, like a man who had read too many comments, seen too many wars fought with words that cost nothing. He scrolled again, thumb restless, eyes sharp.

Jeeny: “But don’t you think it’s worse now? The noise is constant. People don’t listen anymore — they just perform outrage. It’s like empathy’s gone out of style.”

Jack: “Empathy doesn’t trend. Outrage does. It’s the new currency. Anger sells faster than compassion.”

Host: The neon sign outside blinked faintly — LIVE NOW, then LIE NOW, as if mocking them. The hum of rain against the window filled the pauses in their words.

Jeeny: “We’ve turned conversation into combat. People post pain like trophies. They don’t heal — they harvest reactions.”

Jack: “You say that like you’re not part of it.”

Jeeny: “I’m trying not to be.”

Jack: “So you don’t post?”

Jeeny: “I do. But I post with thought, not noise.”

Jack: “That’s like whispering in a hurricane.”

Host: Jack looked up from his phone, his grey eyes tired, but alert — the way soldiers look after surviving a battle they didn’t choose. Jeeny met his gaze, her brown eyes still soft, still stubbornly hopeful.

Jeeny: “Maybe whispers are all we have left. And maybe they matter more now than ever.”

Jack: “You think kindness can compete with algorithms?”

Jeeny: “It’s not about winning, Jack. It’s about not becoming what we hate.”

Host: The barista turned up the volume on the small café radio — a talk show murmuring about online harassment, misinformation, censorship. The words floated through the air like fog.

Jack sighed, set his phone down, rubbing his temples.

Jack: “I used to think the internet connected people. Now it just amplifies the worst parts of them.”

Jeeny: “That’s because we forgot it’s made of us. The internet doesn’t create hate — we do.”

Jack: “So we’re the virus.”

Jeeny: “And also the cure.”

Host: A small smile ghosted across her lips, the kind that holds both sadness and faith. The light from the window haloed her face, giving her the quiet glow of conviction.

Jeeny: “There’s a story I read once — a man in Japan who spent years replying kindly to hateful comments. Just gentle words, nothing grand. Over time, some of those people apologized. Some even changed. He said he wasn’t fighting trolls — he was teaching lost souls how to feel again.”

Jack: “And how many did he reach? Ten? Out of millions?”

Jeeny: “Ten is a beginning.”

Jack: “Idealism looks nice in quotes. But the world doesn’t run on stories, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “Then why do you spend every night watching other people’s stories online?”

Host: The question landed like a quiet blade. Jack’s mouth opened, then closed. He leaned back in his chair, his jaw tightening, his eyes drifting to the window — to the reflection of himself framed in blue light, distorted by raindrops.

Jack: “Because sometimes it feels like watching is safer than living.”

Jeeny: “And posting is safer than feeling.”

Host: Silence. Outside, the rain drummed harder — urgent, unrelenting. Inside, the café felt smaller, the walls inching closer.

Jeeny: “We talk about social media like it’s a monster, but it’s just a mirror. It shows us everything we’re afraid to see. The vanity, the anger, the loneliness.”

Jack: “You think people want to see that? They want filters, not reflections.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the problem — we’ve mistaken filters for faces.”

Host: She sipped her tea finally, her hands trembling slightly from the warmth. Jack looked at his phone again, but this time he didn’t unlock it. His thumb hovered, uncertain, as if realizing that maybe the real world was on this side of the glass.

Jeeny: “Do you remember when talking meant listening? When disagreement didn’t feel like war?”

Jack: “That world doesn’t exist anymore.”

Jeeny: “Then we have to rebuild it — one sentence at a time.”

Jack: “Rebuild it where? In comment sections filled with wolves?”

Jeeny: “No. In cafés. In parks. In rooms like this one. You rebuild it face to face — where tone has warmth and silence still breathes.”

Host: The rain softened outside, easing from fury to drizzle. Jack ran his hand through his hair, a faint sigh escaping — half frustration, half surrender.

Jack: “Maybe I’ve been shouting too much. Even when I type quietly.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Hazel Keech meant — we speak louder than we think. Maybe it’s time we start thinking louder than we speak.”

Jack: “And how do we do that?”

Jeeny: “By listening before replying. By feeling before reacting. By remembering that every profile picture is a pulse.”

Host: The café door opened briefly — a gust of cold air, a rush of rain-scented wind. A young man entered, soaked, clutching his phone. He sat near them, typing furiously, his face illuminated by the familiar glow.

Jeeny glanced at him, then back at Jack.

Jeeny: “We’re all drowning in our own reflections, Jack. But we can still learn to swim.”

Jack: “And if the water’s poisoned?”

Jeeny: “Then we purify it — drop by drop.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly — not the cynical kind, but the weary kind that admits truth has weight. He took a sip of his coffee, now lukewarm, and exhaled.

Jack: “You know, sometimes I envy your hope. You talk about the internet like it’s still human.”

Jeeny: “It is human. That’s what scares us.”

Host: Her voice softened, but it didn’t break. The light outside flickered one last time, then steadied. The rain stopped completely.

Jack picked up his phone again, opened his feed — a flood of noise, arguments, outrage. He hesitated, then did something small but monumental.

He turned it off.

Jeeny watched him — not triumphantly, but quietly proud.

Jack: “You’re right. The noise isn’t the problem. The silence is. We forgot how to listen.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s where we start — with silence. Real silence.”

Host: They sat there for a while, the hum of the world fading into the background. Outside, the streets glistened under the streetlights — washed, clean, momentarily innocent.

The café felt like an island of calm in a storm of opinions. Two people — a skeptic and a dreamer — finding peace in something simple, something ancient.

Not a post.
Not a reaction.
Just presence.

And for the first time in a long while, Jack smiled — not at a screen, but at a human face.

Host: The rain had stopped, but the city still shimmered, alive and quiet. Somewhere in the distance, a phone buzzed — ignored.

And in that silence, in that rare and sacred quiet, thought finally spoke louder than noise.