Avoid popularity; it has many snares, and no real benefit.

Host: The rain fell in thin, silver sheets, blurring the neon lights of the city street below. The rooftop café was nearly empty, except for two silhouettes under the soft amber glow of a hanging lamp. Steam rose from their cups, curling like ghosts of thought in the cool night air.

Jack sat with his coat collar turned up, eyes distant, the kind of gaze that measured the world by its disappointments. Jeeny sat across from him, hands cupped around a mug, her hair damp, her expression tender yet quietly resolute.

The rain whispered against the awning, steady and eternal. Somewhere below, a crowd cheered — the sound of a thousand unseen strangers celebrating someone else’s success.

Jeeny: “William Penn said, ‘Avoid popularity; it has many snares, and no real benefit.’ It’s strange, isn’t it? We live in a time when everyone’s chasing it — as if being seen is the same as being alive.”

Jack: “That’s because for most people, being unseen feels like death. In Penn’s day, maybe anonymity was peace. But now? If you’re invisible, you might as well not exist.”

Host: The lamp flickered, and for a moment, their faces dissolved into half shadow, half light — as if the night itself couldn’t decide which of them it agreed with.

Jeeny: “But that’s the trap, Jack. You start living for the applause instead of the truth. You shape yourself for attention, not integrity. That’s what Penn meant by snares — the loss of self.”

Jack: “And what’s the alternative? Obscurity? Living your whole life doing good things nobody notices? You think silence fills the same space fame does?”

Jeeny: “No. But I think peace does. The kind of peace that comes from being enough — without needing an audience to confirm it.”

Jack: “Peace doesn’t pay rent. Or build a legacy. Look at history — the people we remember, the ones who change things — they all chased the stage in some form. Socrates, Galileo, Martin Luther King. You think they were hiding from popularity?”

Jeeny: “They didn’t chase it. It chased them. They stood for something real, and the world turned to look. That’s different from bending yourself just to be noticed.”

Host: The rain deepened, becoming a soft drumbeat on the metal roof. The city lights below blurred into a river of color, like a thousand eyes blinking in restless search of something beautiful to consume.

Jack: “You talk as if fame and falseness are the same thing.”

Jeeny: “Aren’t they, most of the time? The moment people start loving the image of you, you start protecting that image instead of the truth of who you are. That’s how people get lost — not in failure, but in success.”

Jack: “That’s easy to say when you’ve never been adored. You don’t know what it’s like to have the world hang on your words. To feel that kind of power.”

Jeeny: “Power?” She leaned closer. “Or dependence? You mistake their attention for strength, but it’s a leash, Jack. You start performing for their approval, and soon you can’t breathe without it.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, his fingers tapping against the table, the sound sharp against the rain’s rhythm. His voice lowered, rough with something between pride and pain.

Jack: “You think I don’t know that? I’ve tasted it. The interviews, the applause, the followers counting your worth in digital hearts. And then one scandal, one mistake, and it all turns to silence. The same crowd that lifted you — suddenly they’re waiting for your fall.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s the snare Penn warned about. Popularity gives nothing it doesn’t plan to take back.”

Jack: “So what then? We just give up ambition? Pretend we don’t care about recognition?”

Jeeny: “Not pretend. Transcend. Let your work be your witness, not the noise around it.”

Host: The wind shifted, sending a fine spray of rain across the table. Jeeny didn’t flinch. Her eyes held Jack’s — steady, dark, and full of unspoken conviction.

Jeeny: “Think about Van Gogh, Jack. He died in obscurity. No crowd, no acclaim. Yet his art — it burned with life. Now the whole world remembers his name. He didn’t chase popularity. He chased truth.”

Jack: “And he died for it.”

Jeeny: “And lived forever because of it.”

Host: The light above them flickered again, this time catching the shimmer of rain on Jeeny’s lashes, the tension in Jack’s jaw, the quiet ache of two people trying to define worth in a world addicted to applause.

Jack: “You make it sound romantic. But you can’t live on principle alone. People crave connection — they need to be seen. It’s not vanity, it’s survival.”

Jeeny: “But when everyone’s trying to be seen, who’s left to look? The world drowns in noise, and meaning dies in the echo.”

Jack: “Maybe meaning’s overrated. Maybe all we have is visibility — a brief flare before we vanish.”

Jeeny: “That’s just fear talking. The kind that confuses presence with importance.”

Host: The rain softened, falling now in gentle rhythms, like breathing. Jack stared at the street below, where people hurried under umbrellas — each a small, glowing world of solitude in motion.

Jack: “You ever wonder why we crave it so much? Why we want the crowd’s eyes, the clicks, the cheers?”

Jeeny: “Because we’re lonely. Because we mistake being noticed for being loved.”

Jack: “And you think there’s a difference?”

Jeeny: “A world of difference. One feeds your ego. The other feeds your soul.”

Host: The sound of thunder rumbled distantly, a low, mournful note that seemed to agree with her. Jack turned back to Jeeny, his expression softer now, the sharp edges worn down by thought.

Jack: “So you’d rather live quiet, invisible, forgotten?”

Jeeny: “Not forgotten. Just... free. Free from the cage of perception. I’d rather whisper the truth into one honest ear than shout lies to a thousand deaf ones.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. And tragic.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s peace.”

Host: The rain began to lighten, the city lights brightening as the storm eased. A single beam of light broke through the clouds, catching the wet pavement below — a fleeting reflection of stillness amid motion.

Jeeny watched it, her voice soft. “Popularity is like that light. Beautiful for a second. But it never stays. What stays is who you are when the light fades.”

Jack: “And what if you don’t know who that is anymore?”

Jeeny: “Then you turn off the lights — and start listening.”

Host: A silence bloomed between them — full, warm, and somehow cleansing. Jack leaned back, his eyes distant, a small, genuine smile breaking through the residue of his cynicism.

Jack: “You know, I used to think applause was proof that I mattered.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think… maybe the quiet matters more.”

Host: Jeeny’s smile deepened, faint but luminous, like a candle in a dark cathedral. She lifted her cup, the steam curling upward, a quiet symbol of release.

Jeeny: “Then maybe you’ve finally started hearing your own voice.”

Host: The rain stopped. The city’s heartbeat slowed, replaced by the faint hum of the night. The two of them sat in stillness — no audience, no spotlight — just existence, unmeasured, unperformed.

In the glass reflection of the window, they looked like two shadows breathing the same thought:

That sometimes the truest kind of fame — is found in being forgotten by others, but remembered by yourself.

Fade out.