But as far as, for I think it will be amazing you know where I

Host: The sunset burned low over the city, bleeding amber and crimson into the glass of the skyscrapers. The air was heavy with the hum of traffic, the murmur of evening crowds, the faint smell of rain yet to come. Inside a small downtown bar, the light was dim and the air smelled of old whiskey and regret.

Jack sat at the counter, his grey eyes fixed on the television overhead. A young actor was giving an interview, his voice filled with hope, nervousness, and the kind of innocent belief that only comes before the world teaches you what it costs.

Jeeny, sitting next to him, turned her head, listening. Her hair fell in a dark curtain, catching the faint neon glow from the sign outside.

Jeeny: “He said, ‘It will be amazing to see where I find myself years from now because of this film.’ That’s Brandon Routh—right before Superman Returns came out. He sounded so… sure that it would change everything.”

Jack: “Yeah.” He takes a slow drink. “And it didn’t. The film came and went. He got his moment, then he disappeared for a decade. That’s the story of Hollywood—and life. You think one event will define you forever, and then time laughs.”

Host: The bartender wiped the counter in slow, circular motions, the music low and melancholic. Jeeny’s eyes narrowed, but there was no anger—only a quiet sadness that glistened under the light.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that beautiful, Jack? That moment before the fall? That belief? That’s what makes us human. He didn’t know if it would last—he just believed. He wanted to matter.”

Jack: “Belief doesn’t pay the rent, Jeeny. You know what happens to people like that? They give everything to a moment that the world forgets in a weekend. It’s cruel. It’s not beautiful. It’s delusion dressed as destiny.”

Host: A gust of wind pushed the door, making it creak. Somewhere outside, a car horn echoed, then faded into the night.

Jeeny: “You call it delusion. I call it faith. When you’re part of something larger than yourself—even for a moment—it changes you. You think Van Gogh knew anyone would remember him? He died believing he was a failure. And yet now, his work defines beauty itself.”

Jack: “But he’s dead, Jeeny. He didn’t live to see the admiration. He didn’t benefit from it. You can call that poetic if you want, but it’s still tragic. Routh’s dream didn’t buy him legacy—it bought him a lesson.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the lesson was worth it.”

Host: Jack laughed, but it wasn’t mocking—more like the kind of laughter that comes from someone who’s seen too much and found no comfort in it.

Jack: “You’re telling me disappointment is worth it?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because it means he tried. It means he believed he could be something more. That’s not foolish—that’s courage. You call it illusion, but it’s the same fire that built every invention, every revolution, every piece of art.”

Host: Jack turned, his grey eyes meeting hers. There was a flash of defiance, but also a shadow—the faint ache of someone who once believed too, and paid for it.

Jack: “You ever notice how people talk about ‘fate’ only when they’re losing? They wrap failure in poetic words to make it bearable. They say, it wasn’t meant to be. Maybe Routh said that to himself after the film tanked. Maybe that’s what we all do—rewrite the past so it hurts less.”

Jeeny: “Maybe rewriting is how we survive. You think too much truth makes us strong? No, Jack—it breaks us. Hope is the lie that keeps us breathing. It’s what made him stand in front of that camera and believe the world would know his name. And maybe that moment was enough.”

Host: The bartender switched the channel. The screen now showed a news segment about Superman’s cultural history—Routh’s younger face appearing again, a ghost of the man who had once said “it’s crazy, everyone will know me because of this film.”

Jack: “Funny, isn’t it? He was right. People do remember him. Not for fame, but for what he represented—a man who carried the weight of a symbol too big for him.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what makes it beautiful. He became the symbol he believed in, even if just for a heartbeat. Sometimes life gives you a role not to keep, but to reveal who you are.”

Host: Jack’s cigarette glowed in the dimness, its smoke rising like a thin prayer. He exhaled, the wordless sigh of a man who understood too much about failure to still be bitter about it.

Jack: “You talk about roles like they’re divine. But what about all the people who believe and get crushed by it? The ones who don’t get remembered? What’s their redemption, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “Their redemption is that they lived it. That they felt something so strong it burned. Not everyone needs a legacy. Sometimes just having a moment where you believe your story matters is enough.”

Host: There was silence. The kind that vibrates, alive with unspoken truths. A neon reflection pulsed across their faces, half light, half shadow—a reminder that both were always intertwined.

Jack: “So, you think it’s okay to live for a dream that might never come true?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because the living is the point, not the dream. You can’t measure a life by what it achieves, Jack. You measure it by what it reaches for.”

Host: Jack looked away, his eyes tracing the raindrops on the window. His voice softened.

Jack: “You know… when I was younger, I thought I’d change the world. I thought one book, one idea, could make people remember me. Now I just want to matter to one person.”

Jeeny: “And you already do. You see? That’s the thing—impact doesn’t always shout. Sometimes it just… lingers quietly in someone else’s memory.”

Host: Outside, a busker began to play a tune on a saxophone, slow and haunting, each note dripping with melancholy. Jeeny smiled faintly, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass.

Jeeny: “Brandon Routh believed that film would define him. Maybe it didn’t define his career, but it defined his belief in himself. That’s something the world can’t take away.”

Jack: “Maybe belief is the only thing we ever own.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And if one person, years later, still remembers that belief—still feels it—then it wasn’t wasted.”

Host: The bar grew quieter. The music swelled—an old jazz record playing its final notes. Jack and Jeeny sat there in the half-light, two souls caught between realism and faith, between the fear of insignificance and the beauty of trying anyway.

The camera would have pulled back then—through the rainy glass, over the streets that reflected the lights like scattered dreams.

Host: And as the saxophone faded, only the echo of Jeeny’s last words remained—

Jeeny: “It’s crazy, yes. But so is every moment we decide to believe in ourselves before the world does.”

Host: The scene ended on their silhouettes, still together, still uncertain, yet somehow whole—like two flickering lights in the dark, daring the night to remember them.