Ever since grammar school, I knew I wanted to be famous - I

Host: The neon lights from the small Chicago café flickered through the windows, staining the fogged glass with streaks of rose and violet. A faint hum of traffic outside mingled with the quiet rhythm of a piano playing somewhere in the corner — not live, but recorded, the sound of someone else’s dream spinning on repeat.

At a table near the window sat Jeeny, her hands wrapped around a cup of coffee, her eyes reflecting the city’s glow. Across from her, Jack leaned back, tapping a slow rhythm against the tabletop, watching her with that familiar mix of curiosity and disbelief.

Jeeny: “Jennifer Hudson once said, ‘Ever since grammar school, I knew I wanted to be famous — I always wanted to be a singer.’”

Jack: (grinning faintly) “Ambition in its purest form — unfiltered, unashamed. You’ve got to admire that.”

Host: The piano’s melody deepened, its notes echoing off the brick walls — a small, haunting tune, like the echo of childhood dreams finding their way back through time.

Jeeny: “I do admire it. There’s something innocent in that kind of wanting — before the world teaches you how heavy fame really is.”

Jack: “Innocent, or naïve? Wanting to be famous is like wanting to live forever — both sound glorious until you realize what eternity costs.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But for someone like Hudson — growing up where she did, how she did — fame wasn’t about vanity. It was about escape. About proof.”

Jack: “Proof of what?”

Jeeny: “That you’re more than the limits around you. That your voice — your story — deserves to echo beyond the walls that try to hold you.”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly, not from uncertainty, but conviction. The rain began to fall, a soft percussion against the glass, blending with the city’s music.

Jack: “I don’t know. I’ve always thought fame kills authenticity. The moment people start watching, you stop being honest — you start performing.”

Jeeny: “But performing can be honest too. Singing isn’t pretending. It’s revealing. Fame doesn’t make it false — it just makes it fragile.”

Jack: “Fragile because everyone wants a piece of it.”

Jeeny: “No. Fragile because you start confusing the song with the applause.”

Host: The waitress passed, refilling cups, her movements slow, rhythmic, unbothered — like she’d seen every kind of dreamer come through those doors. The steam rose between them, turning the café into a miniature theatre of silhouettes and reflection.

Jack: “So you think wanting to be famous is still noble?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s human. Everyone wants to be seen — some people just choose a louder way to ask for it.”

Jack: (smirking) “And the rest of us just hide behind philosophy.”

Jeeny: (laughing softly) “Exactly.”

Host: The laughter faded gently, replaced by the distant sound of sirens — not urgent, but familiar, like the city’s pulse.

Jeeny: “When Hudson said she wanted to be famous, she wasn’t dreaming about red carpets. She was dreaming about survival — about being heard in a world that silences so many.”

Jack: “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “I do. Because fame, for people like her, isn’t about vanity. It’s about legacy. It’s about saying, ‘I existed, and I mattered.’”

Host: Jack watched her for a moment, the light catching the edge of his expression — softening the usual cynicism.

Jack: “It’s strange. You talk about fame like it’s a prayer.”

Jeeny: “It is. Every song is a prayer. Every artist who steps on a stage is saying, ‘Please, let me be seen for who I am, just once, before I disappear.’”

Host: The rain fell harder now, its rhythm syncing with the heartbeat of the piano. Jack leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his tone lower now, more contemplative.

Jack: “You know what the tragedy is? The world always answers that prayer — but it never listens long enough.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it doesn’t have to. Even a brief echo is enough. It’s not about being remembered forever — it’s about being remembered at all.”

Jack: “That’s what you think fame is?”

Jeeny: “No. That’s what I think art is.”

Host: A soft silence settled, filled only by the distant hum of the song still playing — a woman’s voice, rich and trembling, breaking on the high notes.

Jack: “You think she ever regrets it? The fame, I mean?”

Jeeny: “I think she carries it the way she carries her grief — like a torch. Pain and passion have the same source; it’s what she does with them that turns both into light.”

Jack: “So you’re saying fame doesn’t corrupt — it magnifies.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Whatever’s in you — love, loneliness, ambition — fame just makes it louder.”

Host: The fire from a nearby candle flickered as she spoke, the tiny flame bowing to the current of her words. Jack looked out the window — the street reflected in the glass like a fading stage.

Jack: “You ever wanted that?”

Jeeny: “To be famous?” (pausing) “No. Just to be understood.”

Jack: “That’s rarer.”

Jeeny: “That’s why it matters more.”

Host: The music ended, the final note hanging in the air like an unanswered question. The rain slowed, becoming drizzle — the storm’s exhaustion matching the stillness between them.

Jeeny reached for the old photo that lay beside her coffee — a young Jennifer Hudson singing in a church, eyes closed, mouth wide open, heart visible. She smiled faintly.

Jeeny: “That’s what she meant, you know. Not fame for its own sake — but freedom. The right to fill the world with your voice and not be told to quiet down.”

Jack: “So fame as redemption.”

Jeeny: “Fame as resurrection.”

Host: The camera pulled back, the café shrinking into a single glowing window in the endless grid of city night. Inside, two figures sat surrounded by words, memory, and the hum of forgotten songs.

And as the scene dissolved into the dark rain of Chicago, Jennifer Hudson’s words lingered — not as ambition, but as invocation:

that to want to be seen
is not vanity,
but a kind of prayer;

that fame is not the hunger for applause,
but the cry to be heard beyond silence;

and that somewhere,
in the trembling voice of a child
who already knows what she wants to become,

there lives the most sacred truth of all —
that to sing is to survive,
and to be seen,
even for a moment,
is to exist completely.