Faith Hill is a big role model.

Host: The theater was empty now — just rows of velvet seats, quiet and waiting, like an audience that had already applauded and gone home but left its echo behind. The faint scent of roses, dust, and stage makeup hung in the air. A single spotlight still burned center stage, spilling its tired gold across the floorboards.

Jack sat on the edge of the stage, one boot hanging off, his hands clasped loosely between his knees. Jeeny stood near the curtain, gazing out at the rows of emptiness as though she could still see the ghosts of people who had once believed in something.

Outside, the faint hum of the city pressed against the old walls — distant traffic, laughter, the sigh of passing wind. Inside, time itself seemed to hold its breath.

Jeeny: softly, as though to the empty theater “Taylor Swift once said, ‘Faith Hill is a big role model.’”

Host: Jack lifted his head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth, his grey eyes catching the edge of the light.

Jack: “Faith Hill, huh? America’s sweetheart admiring another. Role models admiring role models. It’s like fame breeding faith.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Not fame — influence. She was talking about admiration, Jack. About seeing yourself reflected in someone who walked the path before you.”

Jack: “Admiration’s easy. Anyone can admire a ghost. Role models are safe because they don’t disappoint you in person.”

Host: His voice carried that familiar mixture of cynicism and sadness — the tone of someone who’d learned too late that heroes were made of clay.

Jeeny: “You really think that? That admiration’s just fantasy?”

Jack: “Of course. We don’t love the person. We love the version of them that fits our hope. Faith Hill, Taylor Swift, whoever — they become symbols, not souls.”

Jeeny: “But maybe that’s the point. Maybe symbols are what keep us moving when the real world gets too heavy.”

Host: The spotlight flickered faintly, as though agreeing — or warning. Jeeny stepped closer to it, the light spilling across her face, illuminating her brown eyes, deep and alive with conviction.

Jeeny: “Role models aren’t supposed to be perfect. They’re reminders that imperfection can still create beauty. That even in all the noise, you can choose integrity.”

Jack: “Integrity?” he laughs softly “In the entertainment industry? Come on. They sell sincerity by the album now.”

Jeeny: “And yet… she meant it. When Taylor said that, she was still young — still figuring out what it meant to be seen, to be believed in. Faith Hill showed her that you could survive fame without losing grace.”

Host: The air shimmered faintly between them — the light from the stage glinting off the dust like slow, falling stars. Jack rubbed his thumb along the edge of the stage, thoughtful.

Jack: “Grace. You talk about it like it’s armor.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe that’s what role models give us — not rules, not perfection, but grace. Proof that you can walk through the fire and come out singing.”

Jack: “You make it sound like art and faith are the same thing.”

Jeeny: “They are. Faith isn’t just about religion. It’s the quiet decision to believe in something — or someone — when doubt is easier.”

Host: Jack leaned back, the light catching his face in half-shadow, half-illumination — the portrait of a man caught between disbelief and yearning.

Jack: “I used to have a role model, once.”

Jeeny: turning toward him “Who?”

Jack: “My father. He used to tell me to work hard, stay honest, never fake who I am. Then I watched him cheat a client, lie in court, and call it survival. I guess that’s when I stopped believing in role models.”

Jeeny: quietly “Maybe he stopped being one, but the lesson didn’t.”

Jack: looks at her “What lesson?”

Jeeny: “That honesty still matters — even if he couldn’t live up to it.”

Host: A long silence. The spotlight dimmed slightly, the golden hue turning softer, more human. Jack’s shoulders eased, his expression breaking open — weary, vulnerable.

Jack: “You really think it’s worth it? Believing in people who’ll probably disappoint you?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because the alternative is worse — believing in nothing.”

Host: The wind outside sighed through the narrow windowpanes, carrying with it a whisper of traffic and laughter — the faint hum of a world still moving, still dreaming.

Jack: “You know, maybe that’s what Taylor meant. Not worship. Gratitude. Seeing someone else walk the path so you know it’s survivable.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Faith Hill wasn’t her idol — she was her proof.”

Jack: “Proof of what?”

Jeeny: “That kindness can coexist with success. That fame doesn’t have to rot you from the inside out.”

Host: The stage light flickered again, then steadied. Jeeny stepped closer, her figure bathed in a soft glow.

Jeeny: “We all need someone to show us that decency isn’t weakness. That you can rise without stepping on anyone. That you can be both seen and sincere.”

Jack: “You sound like you’re describing something extinct.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But if even one person still believes in it — then it’s not extinct. It’s evolving.”

Host: He looked at her for a long time, his expression unreadable. The faintest smile tugged at his lips — not of mockery this time, but of recognition.

Jack: “You ever have a role model, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But not for their fame. For their humanity. My grandmother — she worked in a bakery her whole life, raised four kids, never complained once. She didn’t change the world, but she made the people around her gentler. That’s what a role model is — someone who makes you want to be softer, not louder.”

Jack: nodding slowly “Maybe that’s why the world admires stars — not for their light, but for how it reaches through the dark.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And sometimes, all we need is to see that it’s possible to shine without burning others.”

Host: The light dimmed further now, until the stage was painted in silver and shadow. Jeeny sat beside him on the edge of the stage. They looked out at the empty seats, imagining the echoes of applause long past.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, I thought fame was about being seen. But maybe real fame is about being remembered for something that mattered.”

Jeeny: softly “That’s what role models are, Jack — people who matter quietly.”

Host: Outside, the wind slowed, and the city lights began to flicker one by one. The theater seemed to exhale, as though relieved.

Jack stood, brushing the dust from his jacket. Jeeny rose beside him. The spotlight went out, leaving only the faint glimmer of starlight filtering through the high window — fragile, real.

Jack: “Maybe it’s time to start believing again. Not in perfection — just in possibility.”

Jeeny: “That’s all any role model ever gives us — permission to believe again.”

Host: The camera would pull back now, rising through the empty rows, through the quiet rafters, out into the night above the city — lights flickering, lives moving, hearts hoping.

In the dim glow, the echo of her words lingered like the last note of a song that refuses to die:

“Faith Hill is a big role model.”

Because sometimes, the greatest acts of faith aren’t in gods or miracles —
but in people who remind us that kindness, too, can be a form of greatness.