Fame will go by and, so long, I've had you, fame. If it goes by

Host: The night was thick with neon haze and the echo of a distant saxophone drifted through the empty street. A small café, half-hidden between old brick buildings, glowed with a faint amber light that trembled like a memory refusing to fade. Inside, Jack sat by the window, his grey eyes fixed on the reflection of the city’s flickering signs. Across from him, Jeeny cupped her hands around a warm mug, her dark hair falling over her face, half in shadow, half in light.

Host: The rain outside was gentle, almost apologetic, like it didn’t want to interrupt what was about to be said.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack… I’ve been thinking about something Marilyn Monroe once said.”
Jack: “That’s new. You quoting movie stars.”
Jeeny: “She said, ‘Fame will go by and, so long, I’ve had you, fame. If it goes by, I’ve always known it was fickle. So at least it’s something I experience, but that’s not where I live.’”
Jack: (smirks faintly) “And you think that’s profound?”
Jeeny: “I think it’s honest. She understood what it means to feel seen by millions and still live in a place outside of it.”
Jack: “Or maybe she just understood how to make her pain sound poetic. Fame didn’t leave her alone, Jeeny. It buried her.”

Host: The sound of a passing car filled the pause, its headlights washing over their faces like a brief flash of memory. Jack leaned back, his hands clasped, his voice low and cutting.

Jack: “Fame isn’t fickle, it’s a business transaction. You give the world what it wants, and it gives you a spotlight. Until it doesn’t.”
Jeeny: “That’s so cold, Jack. You make it sound like a contract.”
Jack: “It is a contract. You think the world loves anyone for who they are? No — it loves them for what they represent. Marilyn was beauty. Elvis was rebellion. Lennon was peace. The moment they stop feeding that image, the world moves on.”
Jeeny: “But that’s exactly what she meant! That it’s fickle, temporary. And that she didn’t live there. She knew fame wasn’t her home.”
Jack: “Then why did she die alone, surrounded by cameras even after death?”

Host: The rain grew heavier, tracing silver streaks down the windowpane. Jeeny’s eyes softened, but there was fire beneath her quiet tone.

Jeeny: “You always use the end of a person’s story as proof of their failure. But what if it’s proof of their humanity instead? Marilyn was aware — she didn’t worship fame. That awareness is what made her real.”
Jack: “Awareness doesn’t save you from destruction. It just lets you watch yourself crumble in high definition.”
Jeeny: “You talk like fame is poison.”
Jack: “It is. Just dressed in applause.”

Host: The café door creaked as a couple entered, their laughter cutting through the tension for a moment. The barista wiped the counter, the smell of espresso mingling with the scent of rain-soaked concrete. Jack looked down, rubbing the rim of his cup, his reflection warped in the black coffee.

Jack: “You know, I once met a guy — used to be a rock singer. Had one big hit in the ‘90s. For three years, he was a god. People screamed his name. Now he drives a cab in Los Angeles. He told me the silence after the cheering ends feels like a funeral. Every day.”
Jeeny: “And yet… he’s still alive. Maybe that silence is where he finally found himself.”
Jack: “Or maybe it’s where he realized he was never anything without their noise.”
Jeeny: “That’s the problem — people think fame gives them identity, when it only amplifies what’s already broken.”

Host: The music from the café’s old radio faded into a melancholic jazz tune, the kind that sounds like nostalgia wrapped in smoke. Jeeny’s voice softened, but her eyes stayed locked on Jack’s, unblinking, steady.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder, Jack, what you’d be if the world suddenly looked at you? If your face was on every screen, your name whispered in every room?”
Jack: “Yeah. I’d wonder when it would end.”
Jeeny: “You don’t believe people can be famous and still real?”
Jack: “Real? Fame erases real. It turns people into mirrors for other people’s fantasies. Look at any influencer today — half their lives are scripted, filtered, monetized. The moment they stop pretending, the followers vanish.”
Jeeny: “And yet, millions keep following. Maybe that’s not because they’re fooled — maybe it’s because they hope. Hope that behind the filters, there’s a heartbeat that still believes in them.”

Host: Lightning flickered beyond the window, a brief illumination that painted their faces in stark contrast — his sharp and angular, hers soft but fierce. The storm outside echoed the one between them.

Jack: “You’re romanticizing illusion, Jeeny. The hope you talk about — it’s the same hope that sells makeup, cars, dreams. People don’t want truth. They want the illusion of it.”
Jeeny: “Maybe illusion isn’t always bad. Sometimes it’s a bridge. It gets you to something real. Look at those who were touched by Marilyn — not because she was perfect, but because she wasn’t. Her fragility made people feel less alone.”
Jack: “And yet they consumed her fragility until it killed her. The audience doesn’t love; it uses.”
Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s the tragedy — not fame itself, but the people who forget the person inside it.”

Host: A silence hung between them, thick as the steam rising from their cups. Outside, the rain began to slow, each drop falling more lazily, like a tired confession. Jack’s eyes softened for a moment — just a moment — enough to show the crack beneath his armor.

Jack: “You sound like you’ve known that kind of spotlight.”
Jeeny: “I’ve known what it’s like to be seen and still invisible. Not by millions, but by one person I loved. That’s its own kind of fame — fleeting, bright, and cruel when it goes.”
Jack: “Love as fame. That’s poetic.”
Jeeny: “And true. When someone admires you, they build an image. You live in their mind, not their heart. And when the image breaks, they leave.”
Jack: (sighs) “So we’re all celebrities in someone’s private theater.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. And maybe the point isn’t to stay on stage — it’s to know when to step off.”

Host: The light from the streetlamp outside flickered again, casting their shadows across the table, merging them into one long, indistinguishable shape. The air between them felt warmer, less like a battlefield, more like a confession.

Jack: “You really believe we can live outside of what others see?”
Jeeny: “I believe we have to. Fame — love — admiration — they’re all weather. You can enjoy the sun, but you shouldn’t build your home in it.”
Jack: “And what do you build on then?”
Jeeny: “On the quiet. On who you are when no one’s watching.”

Host: For a moment, the rain stopped. The city lights shimmered against the wet asphalt, reflecting like a thousand tiny stars fallen to earth. Jack leaned forward, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what she meant — Monroe. That fame was an address, not a home.”
Jeeny: “Yes. And she lived there just long enough to know the rent was too high.”
Jack: (smiles faintly) “You always find the poetry in tragedy.”
Jeeny: “And you always find the truth in pain. Maybe that’s why we keep talking.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked softly, the steam from their cups curling into the air like ghosts of old dreams. The storm had passed, but its echo lingered — not in the sky, but in their voices.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… maybe fame, love, all of it — they’re just ways we try to escape ourselves. But in the end, we always come back.”
Jeeny: “Yes. Because no matter how bright the lights get, home is always in the dark — the place where no one’s looking but you.”

Host: The neon sign outside buzzed, casting a soft red glow across their faces. The street was silent now, the city holding its breath. Jack and Jeeny sat there — two souls, illuminated by the ghost light of a world that applauds and forgets.

Host: And in that stillness, fame felt like a passing storm, but what remained — the quiet, the understanding, the shared warmth — was where they truly lived.