An actor isn't someone who is voted in by the people, but just

Host: The city was wrapped in a thin veil of rain, the kind that doesn’t fall, but rather hangs in the air — a mist of forgotten dreams. The neon lights from a late-night theater marquee flickered, half alive, half tired, as if they too had played too many roles. Inside a small ramen shop, steam rose from bowls, dancing under the pale fluorescent light. Jack sat at the counter, coat still wet, eyes tracing the reflections on the window. Across from him, Jeeny sipped her tea, her hands wrapped around the cup like it was her last source of warmth.

Jack: “You know what’s funny, Jeeny? People treat actors like saints and devils at the same time. One day they’re applauded, the next they’re burned for a mistake. It’s nonsense.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But isn’t that the price of being seen? Of influence? Hyun Bin once said, ‘An actor isn’t someone who’s voted in by the people, but just someone who’s famous. We don’t have to be perfect, but we can’t pretend we have no responsibility.’ I think that’s true.”

Host: A subtle silence hung between them, woven with the sound of rain on glass. The city lights blurred, melting into each droplet, as if the world itself was listening.

Jack: “Responsibility? That’s a dangerous word, Jeeny. Actors are entertainers, not moral leaders. Their job is to perform, not to educate. If people choose to follow them blindly, that’s on the audience, not the actor.”

Jeeny: “You say that, but you know it’s not that simple. When millions of young people watch, imitate, and believe what they see, you can’t just shrug and say, ‘It’s their choice.’ Look at what happened with that idol group a few years ago — one member’s comments about drugs led thousands of fans to think it was cool. Words matter, Jack.”

Host: Steam from the broth curled around Jack’s face. He looked down, his grey eyes clouded with something unspoken, as if a memory had slipped in — one he didn’t invite.

Jack: “I remember that. But let’s be realistic. If every public figure has to measure every word, every gesture, what’s left of freedom? We’d be living in a world of mannequins, not humans.”

Jeeny: “Freedom without awareness is recklessness, Jack. You call it authenticity, but it’s just carelessness wearing a noble mask. When a child copies what she sees on screen, whose responsibility is that?”

Jack: “The parents’, obviously. That’s their job — to teach, to filter, to guide. Not the actor’s.”

Host: The shop owner passed by, refilling their tea. The sound of the kettle whistled softly, like a third voice trying to calm the tension in the air.

Jeeny: “And yet, you still expect actors to be role models when they serve in charity events, or when they speak about mental health. You can’t have it both ways — either they’re responsible, or they’re not.”

Jack: “There’s a difference between choosing to do good and being obligated to. You don’t owe morality to the public. You owe truth to your art. If the public can’t separate the two, that’s their problem.”

Jeeny: “You think truth is separate from morality? Then what kind of truth is that? The kind that sells tickets? The kind that feeds tabloids?”

Host: Jeeny’s voice rose, soft yet piercing, like the sound of a violin in a storm. Jack’s hand tightened around his chopsticks. The rain grew louder, pressing against the window, as if it too had something to say.

Jack: “Don’t twist it. I’m talking about artistic truth — the one that reflects life, not polishes it. People make mistakes. Actors are no different. The only difference is — their mistakes are projected on a thousand screens.”

Jeeny: “Yes, and that’s exactly why they should be careful. Visibility is power, Jack. Whether you like it or not, it shapes people. Look at what Heath Ledger’s Joker did — entire cultures of young men idolized chaos after that. Art doesn’t just reflect; it infects.”

Host: The light from the signboard outside flashed, casting shadows across their faces — Jack’s lined with tension, Jeeny’s bright with conviction. The rain hammered, a percussion to their words.

Jack: “So what then? Should actors sanitize their performances? Hide the darkness of humanity because it might inspire the wrong person? That’s not responsibility, Jeeny, that’s censorship.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s consciousness. You can show darkness, but don’t glorify it. You can play a villain, but don’t become one when the camera stops. Responsibility doesn’t mean being perfect. It means being aware of the weight you carry.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his shoulders tense, his breath slow. He looked at her — not in anger, but in something closer to defeat. The shop’s door opened, a gust of cold air swept in, and for a moment, both were silent — the noise of the street filling the void between them.

Jack: “Do you ever get tired of trying to be good, Jeeny? Of caring so much?”

Jeeny: “All the time. But it’s not about being good, Jack. It’s about being human. And humans affect each other — whether we mean to or not. You said it yourself: actors are mirrors. Well, mirrors don’t just reflect, they shape how people see themselves.”

Host: Her words hung in the steam, fragile and luminous, like a lantern in fog. Jack’s eyes softened, the hardness in his voice fading.

Jack: “You know… maybe you’re right. Maybe the problem isn’t that we expect too much from actors, but that we expect nothing from ourselves. We forget that we choose who to follow.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Responsibility isn’t just theirs — it’s ours, too. It’s a shared stage, Jack. Every audience member is part of the script.”

Host: The rain finally eased, turning into a soft drizzle. The city lights shimmered, reflected in the puddles like stars fallen to earth. Jack smiled, the first real one of the night.

Jack: “You always know how to ruin a good rant, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “And you always know how to hide behind one.”

Host: They both laughed, the sound echoing softly through the empty shop, mingling with the last drops of rain. In that moment, there was no actor, no audience, no right or wrong — just two souls sharing a quiet truth about being seen, and being human.

Host: Outside, the theater marquee blinked one last time before going dark — as if the city itself had bowed, closing its scene on a quiet understanding: that fame is only a spotlight, but responsibility — that’s the shadow that walks beside it.