7 Sample Dialogues Between Characters

John and Lucas

INT. SMALL PARK NEAR MICROCHANT – LUNCH BREAK

Lucas sits on the edge of a fountain, sipping a canned cold brew. John walks up holding two sandwiches, tossing one to Lucas.

JOHN:

Salami on white. You’re welcome.

LUCAS:

Thanks, I was about to eat the stale biscotti in the break room.

JOHN:

You’d eat drywall if it came with mustard and mayo.

LUCAS:

If it’s free whose complaining

(John thought about the sandwich that he just paid for.)

JOHN:

Do you ever wonder what the hell we’re actually doing here?

LUCAS:

At MicroChant?

JOHN:

No. Here. Like... San Francisco. The grind, the startups, the tiny-ass apartments with giant rent. The Postmates gigs and "networking events" with $11 beers.

LUCAS:

Ah. Existential dread, with a side of tech fatigue. You’re settling in just fine.

(Lucas leans back, watching a dog chase pigeons.)

LUCAS (CONT'D):

The way I see it, we’re all just trying to find the least disappointing version of ourselves.

JOHN:

That’s bleak.

LUCAS:

Nah. It’s realistic. But sometimes, you meet people or catch a view from some hill, and for five seconds, it all kind of makes sense.

JOHN:

And the other times?

LUCAS:

You keep showing up. Deliver burritos. Hold a camera. Say yes to weird shit until something sticks.

(Pause.)

JOHN:

Why did you ask me to help with that GDC thing anyway?

LUCAS:

Because you looked like someone who needed to be thrown into the deep end.

(John processes that for a moment.)

JOHN:

You ever plan things, or just wing it and hope the universe high-fives you?

LUCAS:

Well it does send me a free lunch today.

JOHN:

I paid for it today.

LUCAS:

Exactly, sometimes the universe throughs you a free lunch today.

JOHN:
You ever think about leaving?

LUCAS:
Every week. Usually Mondays.

(beat)

But I always end up here, back in this overpriced circus with free Wi-Fi and people pretending they’ve figured it out.

JOHN:
You think anyone actually has?

LUCAS:
No. But some are better at faking it. Others, like us, just hope no one asks too many questions.

(A skateboarder nearly crashes into a jogger. They both shout, then get shot a weird look by both the skateboarder and jogger.

LUCAS (CONT’D):
Look, man. This city eats people. But it also makes them. If you’re lucky, you get to decide which one you want to be.

JOHN:
You think we’re lucky?

LUCAS:
I think you’ve got a shot.
(he finishes his cold brew)
Me? I’m probably destined to run a hardware store and moonlight as a fake journalist forever.

JOHN:
You’re not a fake journalist. You’re just... creatively credentialed.

(Lucas snorts.)

LUCAS:
Same thing, man. But hey, people still listen. That’s something.

(They sit in silence for a moment, watching the city pulse around them.)

JOHN:
Sometimes I wish I could go back. You know—before all this. When I thought a good job and a decent apartment meant something.

LUCAS:
Back’s gone, man. Only forward now.

JOHN:
Forward to what?

LUCAS:
I don’t know. But I think it starts with finishing that sandwich.

JOHN (mouth full):
Not bad.

LUCAS:
I know. That’s the trick—take the next bite. See what happens.

John and Hunter

INT. MICROCHANT BREAK ROOM – LATE AFTERNOON

A few employees scroll on their phones. The fluorescent lights buzz. John pours lukewarm coffee into a chipped mug. Hunter walks in, energetic as always, holding a La Croix and a half-eaten protein bar.

HUNTER:
Johnny boy. You ever consider how many emails a man can answer before his soul evaporates?

JOHN:
About twenty-seven. I hit that limit before lunch.

HUNTER:
That’s rookie numbers. I’m trying to double it before I black out from boredom.

(Hunter leans on the counter, cracking open the La Croix like a beer)

HUNTER (CONT’D):
You coming to the happy hour tonight?

JOHN:
I don’t know, man. I was thinking of heading home. Chill. Maybe play a game.

HUNTER:
You serious? C’mon, free drinks, awkward small talk, someone accidentally admits they dated a coworker. It’s practically therapy.

JOHN:
I just... don’t always feel like I fit in with that crowd.

HUNTER:
Nobody fits here. That’s the point. You just fake it better than the next guy. That’s what we all do.

(John takes a slow sip of coffee. Bitter.)

JOHN:
Still figuring out if that’s what I want, you know? All this... startup noise. Makes me feel like I’m running in circles.

HUNTER:
You are running in circles. But the trick is to make sure you’re running faster than the guy next to you.

(Beat.)

HUNTER (CONT’D):
Or at least better dressed.

JOHN:
You wore the same black hoodie three days in a row.

HUNTER:
It’s called consistency. Investors love that.

(They both chuckle. Hunter’s tone softens.)

HUNTER (CONT’D):
Look, John. You’re smart. Smarter than most of the folks on my floor. But you gotta get out there. Shake hands. Get weird. That’s how you end up on the other side of this.

JOHN:
And what’s on the other side?

HUNTER:
No clue. But at least you’re not stuck answering refund emails for vape pens.

(John finishes his coffee. He looks at Hunter, considering.)

JOHN:
What time’s the happy hour?

HUNTER (grinning):
Atta boy. Seven. And first round’s on me—assuming I expense it fast enough.

JOHN:
Deal.

(Hunter claps John on the back as they head out of the break room.)

John and Laura

INT. SMALL SAN FRANCISCO APARTMENT – NIGHT

A modest living room, dimly lit by a floor lamp. A pile of laundry sits on a chair, and John is hunched over his laptop at the kitchen table. Laura enters from the bedroom, barefoot, holding a folded blanket.

LAURA:
You left your socks on the bed again.

JOHN (without looking up):
They were doing reconnaissance.

LAURA:
Well, their mission failed. One of them fell behind enemy lines.

(She tosses it lightly at his shoulder. He smiles, catches it.)

JOHN:
Thanks, Commander.

(She sits across from him, watching as he clicks through rental listings.)

LAURA:
Any luck?

JOHN:
Define luck. If “luck” means a 500-square-foot shoebox with questionable plumbing for three grand, then yes—I struck gold.

(Laura leans back with a sigh.)

LAURA:
I’m not asking for a palace. Just somewhere I can open a closet without triggering an avalanche.

JOHN:
Agreed. Also, somewhere with a second room. One of us needs to stop working from the couch.

LAURA (half-smiling):
You mean you need to stop working from the couch. You’re nesting in the cushions like a data-analysis pigeon.

JOHN:
The couch and I have a bond. Don’t judge.

(She reaches for his hand across the table, intertwining her fingers with his.)

LAURA:
I just want to be able to breathe. I don’t mind living small. But this… this feels like we’re living stacked.

JOHN:
Yeah. You ever notice how we stopped inviting people over?

LAURA:
Because there’s nowhere to sit. Unless someone wants to dine with the laundry pile.

(They both laugh quietly, the kind of shared rhythm that comes from time and routine.)

JOHN (after a beat):
So, we go for it?

LAURA:
Yeah. Even if it’s more rent, even if we have to give up brunch for the next year… I think we’ve earned some room to grow.

(John nods, squeezing her hand.)

JOHN:
Then we grow. One overpriced square foot at a time.

INT. POTENTIAL APARTMENT – LATE AFTERNOON

A modest but bright two-bedroom unit. The floors are a little scratched, the kitchen is outdated, but the light pours in from tall windows. John and Laura stand in the main room with a leasing agent long gone down the hall. It’s quiet now.

LAURA (spinning slowly):
Okay… this is definitely bigger.

JOHN:
It’s also definitely louder. I can hear the 38 going by like it’s braking in the kitchen.

(They both listen. A bus squeals faintly in the distance.)

LAURA:
I can live with the noise. It’s the first place we’ve seen with a separate workspace and no broken tiles.

JOHN (glancing into the second bedroom):
You thinking office or guest room?

LAURA:
Office. We can barely host ourselves right now. Let’s aim for sanity before hospitality.

(She walks into the kitchen. John follows.)

JOHN:
You okay with this much of a jump in rent?

LAURA:
Honestly? No. But I’m more tired of stepping over shoes in the hallway and eating dinner four feet from your charging cables.

(Beat. She turns to face him.)

LAURA (CONT’D):
This would give us room to breathe. To have fights without one of us sulking next to the fridge. To not whisper when one of us is on Zoom.

JOHN:
I keep thinking, if we just wait a few months, prices might drop.

LAURA:
You’ve been saying that for a year.

(They exchange a look. She softens.)

LAURA (CONT’D):
I’m not trying to pressure you, John. I just… I want to feel like we’re moving forward. Not circling the same five square feet.

JOHN (quietly):
I know. And you’re right.

(He looks around. Sees the sun hit the far wall just right. A pause.)

JOHN (CONT’D):
Okay. Let’s do it.

LAURA (surprised):
Yeah?

JOHN:
Yeah. Let’s trade our cave for some sky.

Hunter and Kathleen

INT. MICROCHANT – SMALL CONFERENCE ROOM – MIDDAY

Hunter is slouched in a chair, bouncing his knee. Across from him stands Kathleen—sharp, composed, maybe five years older, and very clearly someone with authority. She’s not Hunter’s direct supervisor, but as a senior operations lead, her voice carries weight when it comes to performance reviews.

KATHLEEN:
Hunter, your ticket closure rate dropped by 11% this month.

HUNTER:
Because I’m building real relationships with customers. This isn’t a race. It’s... brand loyalty.

KATHLEEN:
Is that what we’re calling backlogged emails now?

(Hunter shrugs, that half-grin always ready.)

HUNTER:
You want fast, hire a chatbot. You want human touch? That takes finesse.

KATHLEEN:
What you call finesse, I call improvisation without structure.

(Beat. She doesn’t break eye contact. Hunter adjusts in his seat.)

HUNTER:
Okay, okay. I’ve been a little... “fluid” with my time. But it’s not like I’m slacking. I onboarded two new clients personally, and I salvaged that trainwreck account from Halcyon Games. Ask Jamie—she was going to drop them.

KATHLEEN:
You also missed two check-ins and forwarded a support request to payroll.

HUNTER:
That was... an experimental workflow.

(Kathleen finally cracks a slight smile—quick, gone in a second.)

KATHLEEN:
You’re lucky your chaos usually lands in the right direction.

HUNTER:
So I’m doing fine?

KATHLEEN:
You’re doing enough. But fine isn’t going to get you moved upstairs.

(That hits. Hunter straightens slightly.)

HUNTER:
What would?

KATHLEEN:
Consistency. Not charm. Not band-aids. Real systems. Real follow-through. Do that, and I’ll write the recommendation myself.

(She gathers her papers and walks to the door. Pauses.)

KATHLEEN (CONT’D):
You’ve got potential, Hunter. Don’t let it rot under sarcasm and La Croix.

(She walks out. Hunter watches her go, then opens a new tab on his laptop—half to work, half to prove something.)

Lucas and Hannah

INT. MICROCHANT – KITCHENETTE – LATE AFTERNOON

The office is quieting down. Most people have headed out or buried themselves in headphones. Hannah stands at the coffee machine, watching the last few drips fall into her mug. Lucas walks in with a half-eaten sandwich and his usual amused smirk.

LUCAS:
Dangerous time for caffeine.

HANNAH:
It’s not caffeine. It’s survival.

(She takes a sip. He raises an eyebrow.)

LUCAS:
That bad?

HANNAH:
Let’s just say… if one more person asks me how to fix a problem they created, I might start charging consulting fees.

LUCAS (grinning):
You should. You’ve got that whole mysterious-fix-it-woman energy going on.

HANNAH:
Is that a compliment or a vaguely disguised gender stereotype?

LUCAS:
Why not both?

(She smirks. Lucas leans casually against the counter.)

HANNAH:
Don’t you have somewhere to be? Or someone to half-pitch an idea to?

LUCAS:
I’m between scams right now. Thought I’d come flirt with Operations.

(She raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t move.)

HANNAH:
This is flirting?

LUCAS:
I’m warming up. Usually I need two drinks and a very forgiving audience.

HANNAH:
So this is your sober tier?

LUCAS:
It gets worse. Or better. Depends on the lighting.

HANNAH:
You know, Lucas, you float through this place like you’re allergic to responsibility.

LUCAS:
I’m not allergic. I just believe in microdosing it.

HANNAH:
And yet, you’re still here. Somehow indispensable.

(He leans in slightly, not pushing, but playful.)

LUCAS:
Maybe I just like the company.

(She doesn’t blink. Then—softly but with edge:)

HANNAH:
Be careful, Lucas. People might start thinking you care.

LUCAS:
God forbid.

(She turns to leave, but glances back once.)

HANNAH:
If you’re still “between scams” tomorrow… I’ve got a problem you might be good at solving.

LUCAS:
What kind of problem?

HANNAH (smirking):
The kind that involves thinking three steps ahead—and maybe breaking one rule.

(She walks out. Lucas watches her go, tapping the edge of his sandwich against the counter, smiling to himself.)

LUCAS (to himself):
Definitely my kind of problem.

Laura and Kathleen

EXT. CAFE PATIO – TEMESCAL, OAKLAND – SATURDAY LATE MORNING

Laura and Kathleen sit at a sidewalk table, sipping oat milk lattes. Bikes roll by. Someone with a rescue dog waves at someone with a pottery tote. It’s very Oakland. The sun’s out, the vibe is mellow. But something about it all feels just a little... forced.

KATHLEEN:
I mean, I actually like that everything closes early here. Makes you go home. Sleep. Be a responsible adult.

LAURA:
Right? It’s... calming. Like the city’s telling you, “That’s enough now, go hydrate.”

(They both chuckle, sip. Beat.)

KATHLEEN (gesturing vaguely):
And look at this. Trees. Space. You can breathe without bumping into a VC in Allbirds pitching a compost startup.

LAURA:
Totally. In SF, I once got elbowed out of a farmers’ market line by a guy named Sterling who said I “wasn’t moving with purpose.”

(They laugh again. But it’s thinner now.)

KATHLEEN:
Plus, rent here’s still technically lower.

LAURA:
If you ignore the fact that it takes 45 minutes and two buses to get anywhere after 8 p.m.

(A beat. Their smiles fade slightly. Laura pokes at her croissant.)

LAURA (CONT’D):
You ever just... miss walking everywhere?

KATHLEEN:
God, yes. I miss deciding I want dumplings and then having them in my mouth within six minutes. I miss noise.

LAURA:
Right? Controlled chaos. In SF, it felt like you were inside the world. Here, I feel like I’m watching it happen from across the bay.

(A car backfires somewhere nearby. A flock of birds erupts upward. They both look, unimpressed.)

KATHLEEN (lowering her voice):
But we’d never say that out loud.

LAURA (mock whisper):
God forbid someone hears we miss San Francisco. We’d be exiled to Walnut Creek.

(They laugh, more genuinely this time.)

KATHLEEN:
Let’s just agree—Oakland has soul. SF has... serotonin.

LAURA:
And sometimes, a girl just wants both.

(They raise their cups in a faux-toast.)

TOGETHER:
To compromise.

(They sip, already planning their next “casual” trip back across the bridge.)

FADE OUT.

EXT. CAFE PATIO – TEMESCAL, OAKLAND – CONTINUOUS

Laura and Kathleen are still seated, their coffee cooling slightly. A guy on a unicycle rides past holding a matcha smoothie. Neither of them reacts.

LAURA:
Okay, I’ll say it. I miss Muni.

KATHLEEN (shocked):
No.

LAURA:
Yes. Not because it’s good—it’s not—but because it exists. Out here, you need a contingency plan just to get groceries past 7.

KATHLEEN:
You need a contingency plan to date. Every guy I match with out here owns a car, a compost toilet, or a banjo. Sometimes all three.

LAURA:
I went on one date with an East Bay guy who brought me to a “meditation rave” in an abandoned church. They served mushroom tea and forgiveness.

KATHLEEN:
You’re braver than the troops.

(They both laugh. It fades into a moment of mutual reflection. Kathleen looks down at her cup.)

KATHLEEN (CONT’D):
I moved here thinking I’d feel more grounded. You know, less distracted. Less caught in the performance of it all.

LAURA:
And?

KATHLEEN:
Turns out I miss the performance. I liked dressing up to go to Trader Joe’s. I liked pretending that coffee meetings were going to change my career.

LAURA:
God, same. I liked feeling plugged into something—even if I didn’t know what it was. Here, everything feels... a little unplugged.

(A couple walks by with a stroller converted from a vintage bike trailer. Laura watches them pass.)

LAURA (CONT’D):
You think we’re going to end up back there?

KATHLEEN:
Eventually. I mean, we’re already lying to ourselves. “This is temporary.” “Just until things calm down.” “We like the community here.” You ever see the neighbors?

LAURA:
One of mine leaves sage bundles on my doorstep. I think it’s a blessing but it smells like beef jerky.

KATHLEEN:
My upstairs neighbor plays the flute. At night. Through reverb.

(Beat.)

KATHLEEN (CONT’D):
It’s peaceful.
(pause)
Too peaceful.

(They both stare at nothing for a moment, the thought settling in. Then Laura snaps out of it.)

LAURA:
Okay. Brunch in SF next weekend?

KATHLEEN:
Yes. I want to wait 30 minutes for overpriced eggs and stare at people pretending they’re not hungover.

LAURA:
And then let’s wander through the Mission pretending we can afford to live there again.

KATHLEEN:
Deal.

(They clink their paper cups again like it’s a pact. The moment is bittersweet—two people who chose the “right move,” secretly plotting their return.)

KATHLEEN (CONT’D):
We’ll just tell people we’re going for “research.” Neighborhood vibes. Local texture.

LAURA:
Urban anthropology.

KATHLEEN:
Exactly. For science.

(They sit back, letting the warm air and slow Oakland pace hold them for just a few more minutes.)

Hannah and John

INT. COFFEE SHOP – SOUTH PARK, SAN FRANCISCO – MIDDAY

A clean, quiet café with open windows and the soft hum of keyboards. John, hoodie and worn sneakers, sits across from Hannah—tailored blazer, sharp eyes. She’s done her research. He’s halfway through a cold brew, scanning the job brief she just slid across the table.

JOHN:
It’s a good offer. I’ll give you that.

HANNAH:
Good offer for a good engineer. I don’t pitch jobs to people unless I’d want them in my own product org.

(John flips a page, scanning.)

JOHN:
Senior Backend Lead, Series C startup, Go and Python stack, GraphQL, Postgres, some light infra work…

(He raises an eyebrow.)

JOHN (CONT’D):
You did your homework.

HANNAH:
Of course I did. You’ve been quietly holding MicroChant’s platform together with duct tape and internal Slack threads for what—two years?

JOHN (smirks):
Almost three. Who’s counting?

HANNAH:
I am. Because that’s three years of writing code for a product you didn’t architect, on a team that doesn’t ship unless you push it forward. You’re not just a coder, John. You’re the fallback plan. The shadow tech lead.

JOHN:
Yeah, and sometimes that’s the cleanest way to work. No spotlight. No pressure.

HANNAH:
You didn’t strike me as someone trying to coast. You wrote a distributed queue system on your own time last year. I read your repo.

(John leans back slightly. She has his attention.)

HANNAH (CONT’D):
The new role isn’t support work in disguise. You’d be building the architecture. Choosing tools. Leading a pod of actual adults. No late-night hotfixes because someone didn’t QA a deploy script. No putting out fires you didn’t start.

(Beat. She lets it land.)

JOHN:
What’s the catch?

HANNAH:
You’d be exposed. Not buried under layers. People would see your decisions. They’ll follow your roadmap—or push back. You’ll lead engineers who are just as smart as you. Maybe smarter.

JOHN (half-laughs):
That’s either terrifying or kind of what I want.

HANNAH (quietly):
Exactly. You’ve hit the ceiling where you are. This isn’t about leaving MicroChant. It’s about not shrinking to fit it anymore.

(John stares at the job brief again, slower this time.)

JOHN:
I’ll think about it.

HANNAH (smiles):
I know. That’s why I came in person. You don’t need a better salary. You need a better reason to keep coding.

(She stands, gathering her notebook. Leaves the offer folder on the table.)

HANNAH (CONT’D):
Deadline’s Friday. If you say no, I’ll believe you mean it. But if you say yes—I'll make sure they listen when you speak.

(She walks out. John stays seated, the city quiet outside the window, the offer folder glowing just a little too brightly in front of him.)

JOHN (quietly, to himself):
VP of Engineering. Fancy titles for the same chaos.

(He folds the folder shut again. Sits back. Looks around the café. Notices a guy his age in the corner, pitching something over Zoom. Another table has two founders sketching UI on napkins. It’s the usual SF churn, hopeful and exhausted all at once.)

(John pulls out his phone. Opens Slack. Scrolls through a few unread messages from MicroChant.)

[11:47 AM] Jason (PM):
Can someone check why the password reset flow is timing out again?

[11:49 AM] Amanda (Support):
Client on line 3 says prod is down. Anyone else seeing that?

[11:50 AM] Victor (CTO):
John, can you take a quick look?

(John stares. His thumb hovers over the screen. Then he slowly locks the phone and sets it face-down on the table.)

(He picks the offer folder back up. Reopens it. Starts reading—not scanning this time.)

INT. COFFEE SHOP – MOMENTS LATER

John is still at the table, the offer folder open again. He’s half-reading a benefits slide when the door jingles. He looks up—

It’s Hannah.

She spots him and walks back over, holding her phone and car keys.

HANNAH:
Forgot my charger. Guess that’s the universe giving me one last shot to nudge you.

(John chuckles. She sits across from him again, more casual this time.)

JOHN:
You really think I’m scared to leave?

HANNAH (gently):
No. I think you’re scared to want something bigger. Because if you say it out loud—and it doesn’t work—you’ll think it says something about you.

(John doesn’t respond. He looks down. That one hit.)

JOHN:
You ever recruit someone who said yes and then regretted it?

HANNAH:
Sure. But I’ve also placed people who tell me, “This is the first time I’ve felt like I’m using the right part of my brain.”

(Beat.)

HANNAH (CONT’D):
It’s not about the job. It’s about the version of you you’ll have to become to take it. I think you’re ready. You’re just still acting like the guy who writes code to clean up someone else’s mess at midnight.

(John leans back, studies her face.)

JOHN:
You’re really good at this.

HANNAH (shrugs):
That’s because I only chase people who matter. And I don’t work with companies that waste them.