And to me, fame is not a positive thing. The idea of being famous

Host: The night stretched like an ink stain across the city, thick with the smell of rain, exhaust, and illusion. A faint neon flicker bled across the sidewalk, painting the wet pavement in trembling color — crimson, violet, gold — the fragile hues of a world built on attention.

Host: Inside a dimly lit bar, where the music was more memory than melody, Jack and Jeeny sat opposite each other in a booth cracked with time. The walls were lined with posters of faces once adored — actors, singers, icons — all immortalized, all forgotten. The air smelled of whiskey, dust, and the faint ghost of dreams gone stale.

Jeeny: “Tom Felton once said, ‘And to me, fame is not a positive thing. The idea of being famous is a lot better than the reality. It's fantastic when you go to premieres and people cheer you, but it's not real. And it's totally not my approach to get my name on a club door just because I can.’”

Jack: “He’s right. Fame is just currency printed on attention — it looks like gold, but it’s made of air. People chase it until they realize it’s not a destination, it’s a hunger that never stops eating.”

Host: The bartender, old and silent, wiped a glass that didn’t need cleaning, as though he’d seen this conversation a hundred times before. The light over the bar flickered, buzzing softly like a tired thought refusing to die.

Jeeny: “You talk like fame is poison, Jack. But it’s also recognition — the world’s way of saying, we see you. Isn’t that what everyone wants? To be seen, to be known, even for a moment?”

Jack: “Being seen isn’t the same as being known, Jeeny. Fame shows your face, but hides your soul. People don’t love you — they consume you. They project their fantasies, their fears, their loneliness, and call it admiration.”

Host: The rain began again, soft, steady, like whispered applause outside the window. Jeeny traced the rim of her glass, her fingers trembling slightly, as though touched by a memory.

Jeeny: “But there’s magic in that too, isn’t there? When a stranger feels hope because of your work, when your face or your voice gives them something to hold on to — that’s not consumption, Jack. That’s connection.”

Jack: “Maybe for the audience, yes. But for the one being watched, it’s a prison. You stop being yourself and start being the idea people want you to be. That’s what Felton meant — it’s fantastic when they cheer, but it’s not real. The cheering stops, but the echo stays, and you can’t tell who you are without it.”

Host: The silence between them pulsed like a heartbeat. The bar’s music faded into a low blues hum, heavy and slow, as if the air itself carried the melancholy of a life lived under spotlights.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that just the cost of influence? You can’t reach millions without giving something away. The question isn’t whether you lose yourself — it’s whether you lose the right parts.”

Jack: “You can’t choose what fame takes, Jeeny. It decides for you. It rewards your image, not your integrity. Look at Marilyn, Amy, Heath — people worshiped them while watching them break. We love our idols like we love our stars — only until they fall.”

Jeeny: “But they burned bright, Jack. Isn’t that something? They gave the world beauty, even if it cost them peace. Some souls are born to shine, even if the light hurts.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes glistened, dark brown, like the surface of wet earth under firelight. Jack stared at her for a moment, his expression unreadable, then he leaned back, his voice softer, but cutting still.

Jack: “You romanticize the pain because you’ve never lived in it. You think suffering makes people meaningful, but sometimes it just makes them tired. Fame doesn’t make art holy — it makes pain profitable.”

Jeeny: “So what’s the alternative then? To hide? To create in silence, and let the world forget you?”

Jack: “To live, Jeeny. To create for truth, not validation. That’s the only freedom. The moment your value depends on applause, you’ve sold your soul for an illusion.”

Host: The rain outside turned heavier, blurring the neon signs until the letters bled into color — fame itself, melting. Jeeny turned toward the window, her reflection caught in the glass, doubled — one real, one image.

Jeeny: “But without the audience, how do you know the truth of what you’ve created? Doesn’t art need witnesses?”

Jack: “Maybe. But a tree still grows in a forest, even if no one sees it. A song can still mean something, even if it’s only sung alone. The world confuses visibility with value.”

Jeeny: “And yet, the world is the stage we’re born on. We all perform, Jack — even you. We all want to be heard, even when we pretend we don’t.”

Host: Jack smiled — the kind of smile that’s more of a sigh, a quiet surrender to something both true and tragic. He leaned forward, his voice low, like a confession that had waited too long.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the curse, Jeeny — to want to be seen, but not known. To want the light, but not the heat.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the light isn’t the enemy. Maybe it’s how you stand in it that matters. Fame doesn’t corrupt everyone — only those who forget to keep a piece of darkness for themselves.”

Host: The bar seemed to breathe around them — the hum of the fridge, the soft clink of a glass, the low murmur of a world that watched from afar. Jack’s eyes drifted to the posters again — so many faces, all once bright, now paper ghosts.

Jack: “You ever wonder if they were happy, Jeeny? The ones on those walls?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But they were remembered. And sometimes, that’s the only kind of immortality we get.”

Jack: “Immortality’s just another word for loneliness that never ends.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s a kind of echo — not empty, but eternal. Fame fades, yes, but the art, the gesture, the moment — those remain.”

Host: The music swelled slightly — an old piano tune, cracked and honest, rising through the smoke. The light flickered, caught their faces, and for a heartbeat, both looked like portraits — two souls captured, halfway between belief and resignation.

Jack: “Maybe the truth is simple. Fame isn’t real — but what you give to earn it can be.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Fame is the shadow — the light is what casts it.”

Host: Outside, the rain began to ease, the city lights shimmering against the wet streets like a stage after applause. Jack and Jeeny sat in silence, their glasses empty, their eyes thoughtful.

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — out through the window, across the street, past the flickering signs and the quiet corners of the night. The faces on the posters would have blurred, fading into one another, until all that remained was light — soft, honest, and fleeting.

And somewhere in that light, the truth lingered like a note from a song long after it ended:

Fame is not the fire. It is only the reflection of the flame.