You used to be able to just call people. You didn't have to be on

Host: The afternoon light slanted through the office blinds, striping the floor in bars of dust and gold. The city outside was a hum, a cacophony of traffic, notifications, and footsteps — a rhythm that no longer paused for voices. Inside, Jack sat at a desk littered with papers, his laptop screen aglow with a calendar crowded in blue boxes. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against the window, her phone in hand, her eyes distant as if searching through some digital fog.

The clock on the wall ticked softly, but even that sound felt out of place, a relic of an older world that once listened instead of scheduled.

Jeeny: (with a wistful smile) “Dan Pallotta said something that’s been echoing in my mind all week. ‘You used to be able to just call people. You didn’t have to be on someone’s calendar to have a phone conversation.’”

Jack: (without looking up) “Yeah, I read that one. A nice piece of nostalgia. Like talking about handwritten letters or horse-drawn carriages.”

Jeeny: “You don’t miss it? The sound of a voice — unexpected, unplanned, real?”

Jack: (shrugging) “I miss the idea, sure. But life doesn’t work that way anymore. Everyone’s got schedules, tasks, projects. You can’t just ‘call’ someone in the middle of a sprint meeting or their meditation app session.”

Jeeny: “But that’s exactly what we’ve lost — the spontaneity. The human interruption. That spark of connection that wasn’t filtered through calendars and notifications.”

Jack: “Spontaneity’s overrated. Efficiency isn’t.”

Host: A silence settled, heavy but familiar, like the pause between messages when the typing dots disappear. The air carried a faint buzz from a neon light, flickering above — a soft, nervous rhythm echoing their conversation.

Jeeny: “You really think efficiency replaces connection?”

Jack: “I think it had to. Look around — the world’s faster now. If I took every unexpected call, I’d never finish a thing. You want to talk, you schedule it. That’s not cold — it’s organized.”

Jeeny: “Organized loneliness.”

Jack: (looking up, half-smiling) “That’s poetic. But come on, Jeeny. People still talk — we text, we voice note, we Zoom.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. We manage each other. We don’t talk; we schedule conversations like maintenance tasks. It’s as if we need permission to be human.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s just evolution. The world adapts. Conversations went from fire pits to telegrams to emails to Slack. It’s not less — it’s just different.”

Jeeny: “Different doesn’t mean better. Remember when a call could save someone from feeling invisible? When your friend’s voice at 11 p.m. meant you weren’t alone? That doesn’t fit in a meeting slot.”

Jack: “Maybe people got tired of being available all the time. The call — that ring — it became invasive. Now at least you know when someone’s coming into your headspace.”

Jeeny: “But don’t you see? We’ve made boundaries out of walls. We used to reach out because we cared. Now we send a link to book an appointment.”

Host: The wind shifted, rattling the windowpane. The city’s pulse seemed to quicken — car horns, phone buzzes, a siren far away — a chorus of the modern age, each sound an alert, a reminder, a summons. Jack rubbed his temple, the blue light of the screen washing his face pale. Jeeny turned, her reflection faintly glimmering against the glass, two versions of herself — one connected, one disconnected.

Jack: “You talk like the world betrayed you. But it’s just technology, Jeeny. Progress. The telephone once replaced face-to-face talks. Now video calls replace phones. People said the same thing back then — that we were losing something.”

Jeeny: “And they were right. Each ‘progress’ makes the next silence easier. Do you know when the last time was that I called someone without texting first to ask if I could?”

Jack: “That’s just courtesy.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s fear. Fear of intrusion, fear of vulnerability. We don’t want to hear real voices anymore because they might carry something raw — need, emotion, truth.”

Jack: “Or noise. You ever been on a call with someone who just rambles? Text cuts the nonsense.”

Jeeny: “It also cuts the soul.”

Host: Her words hung there, weighty, like smoke in still air. Jack leaned back, his chair creaking, his eyes on the ceiling where the light buzzed again. For a moment, he said nothing. Somewhere outside, a street vendor shouted, a sound both alive and distant.

Jack: (softly) “You know, my mom used to call me every Sunday. No matter what. I’d roll my eyes, tell her I was busy. Eventually, she stopped. She messages now. Sends heart emojis.”

Jeeny: “And how does that feel?”

Jack: (after a pause) “Empty. Like eating air.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Pallotta meant. The phone wasn’t just a device. It was a bridge — a pulse between souls. We’ve replaced it with data.”

Jack: “But you can’t stop time. People adapt to speed. The world doesn’t wait for long phone calls.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it should. Maybe that’s the problem — we’re all moving too fast to listen.”

Host: A light rain began to fall, tapping against the window. It was a gentle percussion, a rhythm that once would’ve invited reflection, now competing with the buzz of incoming messages. Jack’s phone vibrated. He glanced at it — another meeting reminder — then silenced it.

Jeeny: “Tell me something, Jack. When was the last time you called someone just because you missed their voice?”

Jack: (hesitating) “I… can’t remember.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We’ve forgotten that listening is a form of love.”

Jack: “Maybe love’s evolving too. Maybe it’s emojis and shared playlists and morning texts.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s starving quietly behind them.”

Jack: “You make it sound tragic.”

Jeeny: “It is. The tragedy of connection without presence.”

Host: Her eyes shone, and in the reflected rain, they looked like small lanterns, lit but fragile. Jack stared at his hands, the lines on his palms catching faint light. The moment hung, long and unbroken, until it became its own kind of conversation.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the more ways we invent to talk, the less we really say.”

Jeeny: “And maybe, someday, we’ll invent silence again — and call it progress.”

Jack: “Do you ever wish we could go back? To the ring of a phone? The surprise of a voice?”

Jeeny: “Every day. Not for nostalgia — but for what it meant: that someone thought of you in real time. That your existence crossed their mind and they reached for you.”

Jack: “Now we reach for notifications instead.”

Jeeny: “Yes. We live surrounded by signals, but we’re starving for tone.”

Host: The rain eased, the city hushed into a wet calm. The office lights dimmed as the evening settled. Jack picked up his phone, stared at it — his thumb hovering over a contact name.

He pressed it.

The ring — that forgotten sound — filled the room, simple, pure, alive.

Jeeny watched, a smile unfolding, small but true.

Jack: (quietly, as the line connects) “Hey… it’s been a while. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

Host: The sound of the voice on the other end — surprised, warm, real — filled the space like light breaking through glass.

Jeeny turned toward the window, watching the last drops slide down the pane.

The world, for a fleeting moment, felt human again.